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ROYAL ECHOES 


Our Children Among the Poets. 

CONTAINING 


CHOICE POETICAL SELECTIONS FOR CHILDREN, FROM THE 
WORKS OF THE BEST AND MOST POPULAR WRITERS. 

BY / 

Julia A. IVatkins. 


dHeganthj SUnstratei) from Original Designs, 


REVISED. 


CHICAGO: 

LAIRD & LEE, PUBLISHERS, 
1891. 




•U s. 







Copyright, 1S91, 

BY 

JULIA A. WATKINS. 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 


5 


DEDICA TION. 

To the baby girls and boys, 

With their winsome, cheery noise,— 
To the little lads and lasses, 

Of all ages, sizes, classes, 

To the older youth and maiden, 

With their hopes and wishes laden,— 
On their growing needs we predicate, 
And to their use these leaves we ded¬ 
icate. 









w: ■ ' 

*■ 








Publishers’ Preface. 


I T is seldom that a compiler is found possessing those rare and manifold qualities 
needed to prepare a thoroughly good book for children’s perusal. As a rule, 
attempts of the kind have proved but moderately successful, on account of the 
poor choice of the pieces selected and of the unsystematic wav in which the efforts 
have been directed. 

We are happy to say that both in selection and classification, Royal Echoes, 
or, Our Children Among the Poets, now presented to the public under the signature 
of Miss Julia A. Watkins, meets most successfully the want, so often felt, of a book 
of choice poetry to be placed in our little ones’ hands. 

In this single volume, profusely and appropriately illustrated, will be found 
excerpts from all the works of those standard poets, who have, from time to time, 
sung their sweet songs for childhood; thus offering to all children, from the very 
young to the older ones, an opportunity of becoming familiar with the ablest writers 
in verse, both English and American, and of forming their tastes from such masters. 

The main divisions of Royal Echoes speak for themselves, and indicate 
plainly the wide scope the compiler has intelligently kept in view and embraced; 
they are entitled: 

Poems for the Nursery, Poems for Boyhood, 

Poems for Childhood, Miscellaneous Poems, 

Poems for Girlhood, Memory Gems, 

and Biographies of the Leading Authors. 

It can therefore be truthfully said that Royal Echoes is a gift that will delight 
the wee little ones, a companion for the louesome hours of, and a source of pleasure 
to, the youth. The various moods a^d phases of child-life, and the diverging tastes 
of our boys and girls, have been studiously considered; their versatile natures 
administered to in their pastimes, and, in their more thoughtful moments, their 
little sorrows soothed, their rejoicings entered into, their sympathies invited, and 


7 




8 


PUBLISHERS’ PREFACE. 


their willful outbreaks tempered. Beautiful poems are here, suitable for parlor and 
school readings and recitations, little prayers, hymns and songs, with many pretty 
stories, legends and fairy tales. 

A very few poems that would not strictly come under the head of standard 
writers have been included, because of their intrinsic worth, and manifest adapt¬ 
ability to the youthful heart. Every selection is preceded by its author’s name, 
that the child may readily learn to associate each writer with his or her works. 
Four carefully-prepared Indexes are added, for ready reference. 

Among the poems herein inserted, the adult reader may notice two strikingly 
beautiful efforts, but little known outside of the world of letters, as they have not 
been included in the regular editions of either of the authors. One, “The Little 
People of the Snow,” by our own Bryant, was only issued in a very limited special 
edition, long exhausted; and “Beauty and the Beast,” written over fifty years ago, 
by Charles Lamb—as perfect in form as it is quaint and unhackneyed in conception 
and morale —is only known by its publication in the Independent , some Six years 
since. To our knowledge, both notable poems have never appeared in any compi¬ 
lation whatever. 

Our acknowledgments are due, and our thanks extended to the many 
authors and publishers for their courtesy in permitting the use of their verses; 
especially to Messrs. Houghton, Miflin & Co., publishers of copyrighted poems 
of Whittier, Longfellow, Lowell, Emerson, Holmes, Saxe, the Cary sisters and 
Bayard Taylor; as well as to Messrs. D. Appleton & Co., for selections from 
Bryant; to Messrs. Harper & Bro. for an extract from Mr. Will Carleton’s “ City 
Ballads;” to Messrs. Chas. Scribner’s Sons for an excerpt from J. Gr. Holland, and 
to the N. Y. Independent for Chas. Lamb’s tale above mentioned. 



O 






INDEX OF SUBJECTS 


A Child’s Evening Prayer. 

A Child’s Thought of God. 

A Chippewa Legend. 

A Cluster of Nevers. 

A Commonplace Life. 

A Cradle Hymn (abbreviated from the original).. 

A Farewell. 

A Legend of the Northland. 

Alice Fell. 

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog. 

Annie and Willie’s Prayer. 

Answer to a Child’s Question. 

Apple Blossoms. 

A Visit from St. Nicholas. 

Baby. 

Baby Bell.. 

Baby Bye. 

Beast and Man are Brothers. 

Beauty and the Beast. 

Bed Time. 

Blind Men and the Elephant. 

\ 

Bishop Hatto. 

Bring Back My Flowers. 

Buttercups and Daisies. 

Casabianca. 

Children. 

Come as You Are (a rhyme for Ragged Schools). 

Daisies. 

Death of a Mad Dog. 

Destiny. 

Dirty Jack. 

Driving Home the Cows. 

Elegy Written in a Country Church-Yard. 

Flowers. 

Give Me Three Grains of Corn (the Irish lament) 

God’s Plans. 

Goody Blake and Harry Gill. 

Grandpapa’s Spectacles. 

Home Sweet Home. 

How Did the Lord Keep Easter. 


PAGE 

..Samuel Taylor Coleridge 54 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning 90 

.James Russell Lowell 189 

. 200 

.Susan Coolidge 97 

.Isaac Watts 38 

.Charles Kingsley 162 

.Alice Cary 60 

.William Wordsworth 115 

.Oliver Goldsmith 207 

.Sophia P. Snow 66 

.. Samuel Taylor Coleridge 66 
..Emily Huntington Miller 114 

.Clement C. Moore 81 

.George Macdonald 40 

.. .Thomas Bailey Aldrich 146 

.Theodore Tilton 21 

.Bayard Taylor 71 

.Charles Lamb 149 

..Edna C. Davis 54 

.John G. Saxe 267 

.Robert Southey 218 

.J. A. Lindberg 158 

.Mary Howitt 62 

. . .Mrs. Felicia D. Hemans 196 

.Martin F. Tupper 40 

.Martin F. Tupper 174 

.Margaret Eytinge 16 0 

.Oliver Goldsmith 207 

. 262 

.Jane Taylor 53 

.Kate P. Osgood 18S 

.Thomas Gray 240 

...Mrs. Felicia D. Hemans 267 

.Amelia B. Edwards 185 

. H 3 

.Win. Wordsworth 208 

.Mrs. M. L. Rayne 90 

.John Howard Payne 184 

.... Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney 235 


9 











































10 


INDEX UF SUBJECTS. 


PAGE 

How the Raven Became Black.John G. Saxe 255 

How to Live.,...Lord Houghton 135 

If. 200 

Indian Summer.John Greenleaf Whittier 245 

In the Barn. 103 

I Remember, I Remember.Thomas Hood 254 

Is It Worth While.Joaquin Miller 260 

Jack-in-the-Pulpit.John G. Whittier 216 

Katy-Did..Oliver Wendell Holmes 142 

Kindness to Animals.Martin F. Tupper S3 

Let the Cloth Be White (dedicated to the poor children’s excursion).Will Carleton 76 

Letting the Old Cat Die.'.Mary Mapes Dodge 73 

Little Bo-Peep.... 24 

Little By Little. 263 

Little Ella (from the Wanderer)..Owen Meredith 136 

Little Nell’s Funeral...Charles Dickens 163 

Little Rain-Drops. 31 

Lochinvar.Walter Scott 264 

Love and Peace.Isaac Watts 32 

Loving and Praying. Samuel T. Coleridge 36 

Lucy Gray...William Wordsworth 145 

Lullaby of an Infant Chief.Sir Walter Scott 37 

Maidenhood.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 111 

Memory Gems. 272 

Minnie and Winnie.Alfred Tennyson 25 

Mother’s Face. 


. 2 9 

Mother’s Room.Mary D. Brine 202 

My Daughter and the Daisies.George Houghton 88 

My Playmate.John G. Whittier 198 

Nine Commandments. 217 

Nobody’s Child.Phila H. Case 140 

Old Grimes.Albert G. Green 265 

Old Maxims.Alice Cary 181 

One by One..Adelaide Anne Proctor 258 

One Day at a Time.Helen Hunt Jackson 251 

Principle Put to the Test.William Cowper 197 

Over the Hill.George Macdonald 252 

Queen Mab the Fairy.William Shakespeare 121 

Questions and Answers. 213 

Red Riding-Hood..John G. Whittier 

Robert Bruce and the Spider. .Eliza Cook 

Saying Grace. 

Sharing.Lucy Larcom 102 

Sir Dandelion.George Cooper 164 

Sir Lark and His Wife-.George Macdonald S 4 

Sixteen.Martin F. Tupper 142 

Sleep Baby Sleep..From the German 44 

Speak Gently.David Bates 263 


124 

230 



















































INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 


11 


Sports of Childhood. 

Squaw Winter. 

Somebody’s Mother. 

Song of Seven. 

Song of the Summer Wind. 

Song of the Wind. 

So Should We Live That Every Hour. 

The Arab’s Farewell to His Steed. 

The Ark and Dove. 

The Barefoot Boy. 

The Bells. 

The Bird That Sings. 

The Boy’s Free Picnic. 

The Boy, The Pigeon and the Fox. 

The Brook. 

The Busy Bee. 

The Chicken’s Mistake. 

The Children in the Moon. .. 

The Children in the Wood. 

The Children’s Church. 

The Child’s Wish. 

The City Child.*. 

The Cow and the Ass.. 

The Crow’s Children. 

The Death of a Mad Dog. 

The Death of Cock-Robin. 

The Death of the Flowers. 

The Easter Loaves. 

The Enchantress—A Spring-Time Lyric... 

The Evening Prayer. 

The Egyptian Princess. 

The First Snow-Fall. 

The Fisher-Boy’s Faith. 

The Five Loaves. 

The Ill-natured Brier. 

The Katy-did. 

The King’s Daughters. 

The Kitten’s Joke. 

The Little Bee. 

The Little Bird That Sings. 

The Little Match Girl. 

The Little Mud Sparrows. 

The Little Orator. 

The Little People of the Snow (a fairy tale) 

The Little Quaker Sinner. 

The Little Rain-drops. 

The Little Stranger’s Arrival. 


PAGE 

..Henry W. Longfellow 51 

.Herbert A. Sessions 245 

.Mary D. Brine 179 

.Jean Ingelow 44 

.George Darley 215 

. 215 

. 135 

..Mrs. Caroline E. Norton 233 

.Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney 75 

.John G. Whittier 169 

.Edgar A. Poe 210 

. 104 

.Mary J. Hatch 176 

.Johann Wolfgang Goethe 200 

.Alfred Tennyson 235 

.Isaac Watts 63 

. 98 

.From the Scandinavian 57 

. 85 

(from the German of)—Paul Gerot 105 

.William Davanant 43 

.Alfred Tennyson 35 

.(from)—Youth’s Companion 238 

.Phebe Cary 52 

..Oliver Goldsmith 207 

. 22 

.William C. Bryant 259 

.Margaret Vandegrift 89 

.Thomas B. Aldrich 97 

.Samuel T. Coleridge 54 

..Edwin Arnold 159 

.John G. Whittier 1S0 

.Mrs. J. M. Dana 195 

.Margaret J. Preston 100 

.Mrs. Anna Bache 94 

. 253 

.Margaret Vandegrift 99 

.William Cowper 74 

.A. M. L. 101 

.Sidney Day re 104 

..Hans Christian Anderson 118 

.Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 102 

.Edward Everett 76 

.William C. Bryant 126 

.Lucy Lincoln Montgomery 112 

. 3 i 

. 6 + 




















































12 


INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 


The Lord’s Prayer (versified for children). 

The Lost Kitten.. 

The Lost Nestlings. 

The May Queen. 

The'Milk-Maid. 

The Months. 

The Motherless Turkeys. 

The Mountain and the Squirrel. 

The Old Clock on the Stairs. 

The Old Oaken Bucket. 

The Orphan Maid. 

The Pet Lamb. 

The Pig and the Hen. 

The Pied Piper.. 

The Poor Man to His Son. 

Questions and Answers. 

The Raven. 

The Robin. 

The Shepherd Boy. 

The Singing Lesson. 

The Smack in School. 

The Spider and the Fly.. 

The Stars and the Flowers. 

The Song of the Wind. 

The Star Spangled Banner. 

The Stolen Bird’s Nest. 

The Story Book. 

The Time of the Golden-Rod. 

The Unfinished Prayer. 

The White-Footed Deer. 

The Youth and the North Wind (a tale of Norway; 

Thorns or Flowers. 

Three Words of Strength. 

Tired of Play. 

To a Boy with a Watch. 

To a Child. 

To-Day. 

To Laura—Two Years of Age. 

To the Children. 

Trust. 

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. 

Two Little Kittens. 

What the Birdie and the Baby Say. 

What the Choir Sang. 

What the Winds Bring. 

Where Shall the Baby’s Dimple Be?. 

Who Pays the Birds. 

Young Dandelion. 


PAGE 

.Mrs. Sarah J. Hale 36 

. 34 

.Hannah F. Gould 56 

.Alfred Tennyson 135 

.Jeffreys Taylor 161 

.Sara Coleridge 61 

.Marian Douglas 93 

. .Ralph Waldo Emerson 256 
. . . Henry W. Longfellow 257 

.Samuel Woodworth 266 

.Sir Walter Scott 116 

.... William Wordsworth 122 

.Alice Cary 42 

.Robert Browning 224 

.Eliza Cook 178 

. 213 

.Edgar A. Poe 248 

.John G. Whittier 253 

.Letitia E. Landon 172 

.Jean Ingelow 7 2 

....William Pitt Parmer 138 

.Mary Howitt 58 

.Oliver Wendell Holmes 221 

. 215 

.Francis S. Key 261 

.Lydia Maria Child 25 

Charles West Thompson 173 
..Robert J. Burdette 94 

. 33 

..William Cullen Bryant 193 

. .John G. Saxe 184 

.Gerald Massey 187 

.Frederic Schiller 164 

.Nathaniel P. Willis 201 

.Sir Thomas Moore 194 

...William Wordsworth 141 

.Thomas Carlyle 192 

.Nathaniel P. Willis i©6 

.Phebe Cary 78 

. LSS 

.Jane Taylor 63 

. 29 

.Alfred Tennyson 29 

.Alice C. Hammond 144 

.... Edmund C. Stedman 99 

.John G. Holland 38 

..Lina Evans 231 

.Dinah M. Mulock 80 





















































INDEX OF AUTHORS 


Aldrich, Thomas Bailey: page 

Baby Bell.146 

The Enchantress, A Spring-Time Lyric 97 
Andersen, Hans Christian: 

The Little Match-Girl.118 

Arnold, Edwin: 

The Egyptian Princess.159 

Aunt Effie: 

The Little Rain Drops. 31 

Anonymous: 

A Cluster of Nevers.200 

Destiny.262 

God’s Plans.113 

If.200 

In the Barn.103 

Little by Little.263 

Little Bo-Peep. 24 

Mother’s Face. 29 

Nine Commandments.217 

Questions and Answers..213 

Saying Grace. 30 

Song of the Wind.215 

The Children in the Wood. 85 

The Cow and the Ass.238 

Trust.158 

Death of Cock-Robin.158 

Katy-Did.253 

Little Stranger’s Arrival. 64 

Lost Kitten. 34 

Unfinished Prayer. 33 

Two Little Kittens. 29 | 


Bache, Anna: page 

The Ill-natured Brier. 94 

Bates, David: 

Speak Gently.263 

Brine, Mary D.: 

Mother’s Room. 202 

Somebody’s Mother. 179 


Browning, Elizabeth Barrett: 

A Child’s Thought of God 
Browning, Robert: 


The Pied Piper of Hamelin.224 

Bryant, William Cullen: 

The Death of the Flowers.259 

Little People of the Snow.126 

White-Footed Deer.193 

Burdette, Robert J.: 


The Time of the Golden-Rod 


Carleton, Will: 

Let the Cloth be White. 76 

Cary, Alice: 

Old Maxims.1S1 

The Pig and the Hen. 42 

Cary, Phebe: 

The Chicken’s Mistake. 98 

The Crow’s Children. 32 

To the Children. 78 

Case, Phila H.: 

Nobody’s Child.140 

Child, Lydia Maria: 

The Stolen Bird’s Nest. 2s 


13 


















































14 


INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


Coleridge, Samuel Taylor: page 

A Child’s Evening Prayer. 54 

Answer to a Child’s Question. 66 

Loving and Praying. 36 

Coleridge, Sara: 

The Months. 61 

Cook, Eliza: 

The Poor Man to His Son.178 

Robert Bruce and the Spider.230 

Coolidge, Susan: 

A Commonplace Life. 97 

Cooper, George: 

Sir Dandelion. 164 

Cowper, William: 

Principle Put to the Test.197 

The Kitten’s Joke. 74 

Dana, Mrs. J. M.: 

The Fisher-Boy’s Faith.195 

Darley, George: 

The Song of the Summer Winds.215 


Davanant, William: 

The Child’s Wish. 43 

Davis, Edna C.: 

Bed Time. 54 

Dayre, Sydney: 

The Little Bird That Sings.104 

Dickens, Charles (Boz.): 

Little Nell’s Funeral.163 

Dodge, Mary Mapes: 

Letting the Old Cat Die. 73 

Douglas, Marian: 

The Motherless Turkeys. 93 

Edwards, Amelia B.: 


Give Me Three Grains of Corn, Mother.185 


Emerson, Ralph Waldo: 

The Mountain and the Squirrel.256 

Evans, Lina: 

Who Pays the Birds?.231 

Everett, Edward: 

The Little Orator. 76 

Eytinge, Margaret: 

Daisies.160 


Gerot, Paul: page 

The Children’s Church (from the Ger¬ 
man of).105 

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von: 

The Boy, the Pigeon and the Fox.200 

Goldsmith, Oliver: 

The Death of a Mad Dog.207 

Gould, Hannah F.: 

The Lost Nestlings. 56 

Gray, Thomas: 

Elegy Written in a Country Church 

Y ard.240 

German,.from the: 

Sleep Baby Sleep. 14 

Green, Albert G.: 

Old Grimes.265 

Hale, Sarah J.: 

The Lord’s Prayer (versified for chil¬ 
dren) . 36 

Hammond, Alice C.: 

What the Choir Sang.144 

Hatch, Marv J.: 

The Boy’s Free Excursion.176 

Hemans, Mrs. Felicia D.: 

Casabianca.196 

Flowers.267 

Holland, Josiah Gilbert (Timothy Titcomb): 

Where Shall the Baby’s Dimple Be?. . . 38 
Holmes, Oliver Wendell: 

Katy-Did. 253 

The Stars and the Flowers.221 


Hood, Thomas: 

I Remember, I Remember 
Houghton, George: 


My Daughter and the Daisies .... . 88 

Houghton, Lord: 

How to Live.133 

Howitt, Mary: 

Buttercups and Daisies... 62 

The Spider and the Fly. 38 

Ingelow, Jean: 

Song of Seven. 44 

The Singing Lesson. 72 


















































INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


15 


Jackson, Helen Hunt: page 

One Day at a Time.257 

Kev, Francis S.: 

The Star-Spangled Banner. 26 

Kingsley, Charles: 

A Farewell.162 

Lamb, Charles: 

Beauty and the Beast.149 

Landon, Letitia E.: 

The Shepherd Boy.172 

Larcom, Lucy: 

Sharing.102 

Lindberg, J. A.: 

Bring Back My Flowers.158 

L.-M. A.: 

The Little Bee.101 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth: 

Maidenhood.,...111 

Sports of Childhood. 51 

The Old Clock on the Stairs.257 

Lowell, James Russell: 

A Chippewa Legend.189 

The First Snow-Fall.1S0 

Lytton, Edward Robert Bulwer (Owen 
Meredith): 

Little Ella (from the Wanderer).136 

Macdonald, George: 

Baby. 40 

Sir Lark and His Wife. 84 

Over the Hill.252 

Massey Gerald: 

Thorns or Flowers. 187 




Meredith, Owen (See Lytton). 


Miller, Emily Huntington: 

Apple Blossoms.114 

Miller, Cincinnatus Heine (Joaauin): 

Is It Worth While?...260 


Montgomery, Lucy Lincoln: 

The Little Quaker Sinner.112 

Moore, Clement C.: 

A Visit from St. Nicholas. 81 

Moore, Sir Thomas: 

To a Boy with a Watch.194 


Mulock, Dinah Maria: page 

Young Dandelion. 80 

Norton, Caroline Elizabeth: 

The Arab’s Farewell to His Steed.233 

Osgood, Kate Putnam: 

Driving Home the Cows.188 

Palmer, William Pitt: 

Thlb Smack in School.138 

Payne, John Howard: 

Home, Sweet Home.184 

Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart: 

The Little Mud-Sparrows (a Jewish 

Legend).102 

Poe, Edgar Allen: 

The Raven.248 

Preston, Margaret J.: 

The Five Loaves.100 

Proctor, Adelaide Anne: 

One by One..258 

Rayne, Mrs. L. M.: 

Grandpapa’s Spectacles. 90 

Saxe, John Godfrey: 

Blind Men and the Elephant.267 

How the Raven Became Black.255 

The Youth and the North Wind (a tale 


of Norway).184 

Scandinavian, from the: 

The Children in the Moon . 57 

Schiller, Johann Frederic von: 

Three Words of Strength . 164 

Scott, Sir Walter: 

Lochinvar.264 

Lullaby of an Infant Chief. 37 

The Orphan Maid.u6 

Sessions, Herbert A.: 

Squaw Winter. *. .245 

Shakespeare, William: 

Queen Mab—the Fairy.121 

Sigourney, Lydia H.: 

The Ark and Dove. 75 

Snow, Sophia P.: 

Annie and Willie’s Prayer. 66 



















































16 


INDEX OP AUTHORS. 


Stedman, Edmund Clarence: page 

What the Winds Bring. 99 

Taylor, Bayard: 

Beast and Man are Brothers. 71 

Taylor, Jane: 

Dirty Jack. 53 

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star!. 63 

Taylor, Jeffreys: 

The Milk-Maid.161 

Tennyson, Alfred: 

The Brook. 235 

Minnie and Winnie...'. 25 

The City Child. 35 

The May Queen.135 

What the Birdie and the Baby Say. 29 

Thompson, Charles West: 

The Story Book.173 

Tilton, Theodore: 

Baby Bye. 21 

Tupper, Martin Farquhar: 

Children. 40 

Come as You Are (a rhyme for ragged 

Schools)...174 

Kindness to Animals.. S3 


PAGE 

Sixteen. 142 

Vandegrift, Margaret: 

The Easter Loaves. 89 

The King’s Daughters. 99 

Watts, Isaac: 

Love and Peace. 32 

The Busy Bee. 63 

Willis, Nathaniel P.: 

Tired of Play. 201 

Whittier, John Greenleaf: 

Indian Summer.245 

Jack in the Pulpit.216 

My Playmate.198 

Red Ridinghood.124 

The Barefoot Boy.169 

The Robin.253 

Woodworth, Samuel: 

The Old Oaken Bucket.266 

Wordsworth, William: 

Alice Fell.115 

The Pet Lamb.122 

To a Child.141 

Lucy Gray.145 








































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P/\RT ONE. 














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(Ooerruj for® tl je Qm^epy. 


They are idols of hearts and of households— 

They are angels of God in disguise; 

His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, 

His glory still gleams in their eyes. 

Chas. Dickens. 



BABY BYE. 

THEODORE TILTON. 


Baby bye, 

Here’s a fly; 

Let us watch him, you and I. 

How he crawls 
Up the walls, 

Yet he never falls! 

I believe with six such legs, 

You and I could walk on eggs! 
There he goes, 

On his toes, 

Tickling baby’s nose! 

Spots of red 
Dot his head; 

Rainbows on his wings are spread; 
That small speck 
Is his neck; 

See him nod and beck. 

I can show you if you choose, 

Where to look to find bis shoes,— 
Three small pairs, 

Made of hairs; 

These he always wears! 

Black and brown 
Is his gown; 

He can wear it upside down; 


It is laced 
Round his waist, 

I admire his taste; 

Yet though tight his clothes are made 
He will lose them, I’m afraid, 

If to-night 
He gets sight 
Of the candle light. 

In the sun 
Webs.are spun; 

What if he gets into one? 

When it rains 
He complains 
On the window-panes. 

Tongues to talk have you and I, 

God has given the little fly 
Ho such things; 

So he sings 

With his buzzing wings. 

* He can eat 

Bread and meat; 

There’s his mouth between his feet! 
On his back 
Is a sack 

Like a peddler’s pack. 


21 









22 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Does the baby understand ? 

Then the fly shall kiss her hand ; 
Put a crumb 
On her thumb; 

Maybe he will come. 

Catch him ? No, 

Let him go, 

Never hurt an insect so; 

But no doubt 
He flies out 
Just to gad about. 

Now you see his wings of silk, 
Drabbled in the baby’s milk; 

Fie, O fie, 

Foolish fly! 

How will he get dry ? 

All wet flies 
Twist their thighs; 

Thus they wipe their heads and eyes ; 
Cats, you know, 

Wash just so; 

Then their whiskers grow. 

Flies have hairs too short to comb, 
So they fly bare-headed home; 

But the gnat 
Wears a hat, 

Do you believe that ? 

Flies can see 
More than we, 

So, how bright their eyes must be! 
Little fly, 

Ope your eye; 

Spiders are near by; 

For a secret I can tell,— 

Spiders never use flies well, 


Then away, 

Do not stay; 
Little fly, good day ! 


THE DEATH OF COCK ROBIN 

ANONYMOUS. 

Who killed Cock Robin ? 

“ I,” said the Sparrow, 

“ With my bow and arrow, 

And I killed Cock Robin ! ” 

Who saw him die ? 

“ I,” said the Fly, 

“ With my little eye, 

And I saw him die ! ” 

Who caught his blood ? 

“ I,” said the Fish, 

“ In my little dish, 

And I caught his blood! ” 

Who ’ll make his shroud ? 

“ I,” said the Beetle, 

“ With my thread and needle, 
And I’ll make his shroud! ” 

Who ’ll dig his grave ? 

“ I,” said the Owl, 

“ With my spade and shovel, 

And I’ll dig his grave! ” 

Who ’ll be the parson ? 

“ I,” said the Rook, 

“With my little book, 

And I’ll be the parson ! ” 

Who ’ll be the clerk ? 

“ I,” said the Lark, 

“ If it’s not in the dark, 

And I’ll be the clerk! ” 






\ 










“I Killed Cock Robin.” 


23 

























































































































24 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Who ’ll carry him to the grave? 
“ I,” said the Kite, 

“ If it’s not in the night, 

I’ll carry him to the grave! ” 

Who ’ll carry the link ! 

“ I,” said the Linnet, 

“ I’ll fetch it in a minute, 

And I’ll carry the link ! ” 

Who ’ll be chief mourner ? 

“ I,” said the Dove, 

“ For I mourn for my love, 
And I’ll be chief mourner! ” 


Who ’ll sing a psalm ? 

“ I,” said the Thrush, 

“ If it’s not in the bush, 

And I’ll sing a psalm ! ” 

Who ’ll toll the bell, 

“I,” said the Bull, 

“ Because I can pull, 

And I’ll toll the bell!” 

And all the birds fell 
To sighing and sobbing, 
When they heard tell 
Of the death of Cock Robin. 


£ 



iW ' 

w > Ik' . 


LITTLE BO-PEEP . 

Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep, 

And can’t tell where to find them: 

Leave them alone, and they’ll come home, 
Wagging their tails behind them. 

Little Bo-Peep fell fast asleep, 

And dreamed she had heard them 
bleating; 

When she awoke, 
she found it a 
joke, 

For still they 
all were fleet¬ 
ing. 



Then up she took her little crook, 
Determined for to find them; 

She found them, indeed; but it made 
her heart bleed, 

For they’d left their tails behind 
them. 


It happened one day, as Bo-Peep did 
stray 

Unto a meadow hard by— 

There she spied their tails side by 
side, 

All hung on a tree to dry. 






POEMS FOR THE NURSERY. 


25 


She heaved a sigh, and wiped her eye ? 

And over the hillocks she raced ; 
And tried what she could, as a shep¬ 
herdess should, 

That each tail should be properly 
placed. 



MINNIE AND WINNIE. 

LORD ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Minnie and Winnie 
Slept in a shell, 

Sleep little ladies! 

And they slept well. 

Pink was the shell within, 
Silver without; 

Sounds of the great sea 
Wandered about. 

Sleep little ladies! 

Wake not soon! 

Echo on echo 
Dies to the moon. 


Two bright stars 
Peep’d into the shell, 

“ What are they dreaming of 
Who can tell ? ” 

Started a green linnet 
Out of the croft; 

Wake little ladies, 

The sun is aloft. 


THE STOLEN BIRD'S NEST. 

LYDIA MARIA CHILD. 

“ To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! 

Will you listen to me ? 

Who stole four eggs I laid, 

And the nice nest I made ? ” 

“ Not I,” said the cow. “ Moo-oo ! 
Such a thing I’d never do ; 

I gave you a wisp of hay, 

But didn’t take your nest away ; 
Not I ” said the cow. “ Moo-oo. 
Such a thing I’d never do.” 

“ To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! ” 
Will you listen to me ? 

Who stole four eggs I laid, 

And the nice nest I made ? ” 

“Bobolink! bobolink! 

Now, what do you think? 

Who stole a nest away 
From the plum-tree to-day ? ” 

« Not I,” said the dog. “Bow-wow! 
I wouldn’t be so mean, anyhow! 

I gave hairs, the nest to make; 

But the nest I did not take. 














“Who stole a nest away from the 


PLUM 


TO-DAY?” 


26 















POEMS FOR THE NURSERY. 


27 


Not I,” said the dog. “ Bow-wow! 
I’m not so mean, anyhow! ” 

“ To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! 

Will you listen to me ? 

Who stole four eggs I laid, 

And the nice nest I made ? ” 

“ Bobolink! bobolink! 

Now, what do you think ? 

Who stole a nest away, 

From the plum-tree to-day ? ” 

“ Coo-coo ! coo-coo ! coo-coo! 

Let me speak a word too! 

Who stole that pretty nest 
From little Yellow-breast? ” 

“ Not I,” said the sheep, “ oh no! 

I wouldn’t treat a poor bird so, 

I gave wool the nest to line ; 

But the nest was none of mine. 

Baa! baa! ” said the sheep. “Oh no| 
I wouldn’t treat a poor bird so !” 

“To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! 

Will you listen to me ? 

Who stole four eggs I laid, 

And the nice nest I made ? ” 

“ Bobolink! bobolink ! 

Now, what do you think? 

Who stole a nest away 
From the plum-tree to-day ! ” 

I 

“ Coo-coo ! coo-coo ! coo-coo! 

Let me speak a word too! 

Who stole that pretty nest 
From little Yellow-breast? ” 


“ Caw ! caw ! ” cried the crow. 

“ I should like to know 
What thief took away 
A bird’s nest to-day ? ” 

“ Cluck! cluck! ” said the hen. 

“ Don’t ask me again! 

Why, I haven’t a chick 
Would do such a trick. 

We all gave her a feather, 

And she wove them together. 

I’d scorn to intrude 
On her and her brood. 

Cluck ! cluck! ” said the hen. 

“ Don’t ask me again ! ” 

“ Chirr-a-whirr! chirr-a-whirr! ” 
All the birds made a stir! 

“ Let us find Qut his name, 

And all cry, ‘ For shame! ’ ” 

“ I would not rob a bird,” 

Said little Mary Green. 

“ I think I never heard 
Of anything so mean.” 

“ It is very cruel, too,” 

Said little Alice Neal, 

“ I wonder if he knew 
How sad the bird would feel ? ” 

A little boy hung down his head, 
And went and hid behind the bed ; 
For he stole that pretty nest 
From poor little Yellow-breast. 
And he felt so full of shame, 

He didn’t like to tell his name. 





* 




V?* 






















POEMS FOR THE NURSERY. 


29 


WHA TBIRDIE AND BAB Y SA Y. 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 

What does little birdie say, 

In her nest at break of day ? 

“Let me fly,” says little birdie— 
“Mother, let me fly away.” 

Birdie, rest a little longer, 

Till the little wings are stronger; 
And she rests a little longer, 

Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say, 

In her bed at peep of day ? 

Baby says, like little birdie, 
“Mother, let me fly away.” 

Baby, sleep a little longer, 

Till the little limbs are stronger; 

If she sleeps a.little longer, 

Baby, too, shall fly away. 

MO TUBES FACE. 

Three little boys talked together 
One sunny summer’s day, 

And I leaned out of the window 
To hear what they had to say. 

“The prettiest thing I ever saw,” 

One of the little boys said, 

“ W as a bird in grandpa’s garden, 

All black and white and red.” 

“The prettiest thing I ever saw,” 

Said the second little lad, 

“Was a pony at the circus— 

I wanted him awful bad.” 

“I think,” said the third little fellow, 
With grave and gentle grace, 

“That the prettiest thing in all the 
world 

Is just my mothers face.” 


TWO LITTLE KITTENS. 

Two little kittens, one stormy night, 

Began to quarrel and then to fight. 

One had a mouse, the other had none, 

And that was the way the quarrel be¬ 
gun. 

“I’ll have that mouse,” said the biggest 
cat. 

“You’ll have that mouse ? We’ll see about 
that!” 

“I will have that mouse,” said the eldest 
son. 

“You shan’t have that mouse,” said the 
little one. 

I told you before ’twas a stormy night, 

When these two little kittens began to 
fight. 

The old woman seized her sweeping 
broom, 

And swept the two kittens right out of 
the room. 

The ground was covered with frost and 
snow, 

And the two little kittens had nowhere 
to go; 

So they laid them down on the mat at 
the door, 

While the old wo nan finished sweeping 
the floor; 

Then they both crept in, as quiet as mice, 

All wet with snow, and cold as ice; 

For they found it was better, that stormy 
night, 

To lie down and sleep, than to quarrel 
and fight. 





30 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


SAYING GRACE. 

“Come, come, mamma, to the window!” 

Cried little Fred, one day, 

“ I want you to see my chickens; 

Why do they drink this way ? ” 


To the heavens over them bending, 
The beautiful blue sky. 

“ See, mamma! ” again cried Freddy, 
A sober cast on his face; 



“They are Thanking God for Water.” 


I quickly went at his bidding, 

And saw the pretty sight 
Of his downy little chickens, 
Drinking with their might. 

And after sipping the water, 

They raised their heads on high, 


“ See how they look to heaven; 
They must be saying grace.” 

“ They are thanking God for water, 
As papa does for food. 

Who could have told them to do it ? 
Are not my chickens good ? ” 








POEMS FOR THE NURSERY. 


31 




LITTLE RAIN DROPS. 

AUNT EFFIE. 

Where do you come from, 

You little drops of rain, 

Pitter patter, pitter patter 
Down the window-pane ? 

They won’t let me walk, 

And they won’t let me play, 

And they won’t let me go 
Out-of-doors at all to day. 

They put away my playthings 
Because I broke them all, 

And then they locked up all my bricks, 
And took away my ball. 


Tell me, little rain drops, 

Is that the way you play— 

Pitter patter, pitter patter 
All the rainy day ? 

They say I’m very naughty, 

But I’ve nothing else to do, 

But sit here at the window; 

I should like to play with you. 
The little rain drops cannot 
speak, 

But “pitter patter pat,” 

Means, “we can play on this 
side, 

Why can’t you play on that ? ” 











































































32 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



“Let Bears and Lions Growl and Fight.” 


LOVE AND PEACE. 

ISAAC WATTS. 

Let dogs delight to bark and bite, 

For God has made them so ; 

Let bears and lions growl and fight; 
For -’tis their nature too. 

But, children, you should never let 
Such angry passions rise; 

Your little hands were never made 
To tear each other’s eyes. 

Let love through all your actions run, 
And all your words be mild; 

Live like God’s well beloved Son, 
That sweet and lovely child. 

His soul was gentle as a lamb ; 

And as in age he grew, 


He grew in favor both with man, 
And God his Father too. 



The Lord of all, who reigns above 
Hoes from his heavenly throne, 
Behold what children dwell in love, 
And marks them for his own. 





















POEMS FOR THE NURSERY. 


33 


THE UNFINISHED PR A YER. 

“ Now I lay me—say it darling; ” 

“ Lay me,” lisped the tiny lips 
Of my darling, kneeling, bending 
O’er her folded finger-tips. 


u Pray, the Lord”—the words came 
faintly, 

Fainter still—“ My soul to keep; ” 
Then the tired head fairly nodded, 
And the child was fast asleep. 



“ Mamma, God Knows all the Rest.” 


“ Down to sleep ”—“ To sleep,” she 
murmured, 

And the curly head dropped low; 

“ I pray the Lord ”—I gently added, 

“ You can say it all, I know.” 


But the dewy eyes half opened 
When I clasped her to my breast, 
And the dear voice softly whispered, 
“ Mamma, God knows all the 
rest.” 





34 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



I’ve been in the attic 
and made a great racket, 
I peeped into little 
Dick’s bed; 

I’ve looked in the stable 
as much as I’m able; 
I hunted the wood 
house and shed. 


I’ve peeped in the old 
wooden spout; 

I went to the wood-pile, 
and staid there a 
good while, 

But never my Kittie 
came out. 


I called little Rover to 
hunt the field over, 
And help find my 
Kittie for me; 

No dog could be kinder, but he couldn’t 
find her; 

O, where can my poor Kittie be ? 

At last I have found her, brown leaves 
falling round her, 

Way up on the wall by the tree, 

O, there is my Kittie, so cunning and 
pretty, 

Come, come naughty Kittie, to me! 


“At Last I Have Found 
Her.” 


THE LOST KITTEN. 


O, where is my kitten, my little gray 
kitten ? 

I’ve hunted the house all ’round; 

I’ve looked in the cradle, and under 
the table, 

But nowhere can Kittie be found. 

I’ve hunted the clover and flower beds 
over, 


SLEEP BABY SLEEP. 

PROM THE GERMAN. 

Sleep, baby, sleep; 

Thy father watches his sheep ; 

Thy mother is shaking the dream-land 
tree, 

And down comes a little dream on thee, 
Sleep, baby, sleep. 






POEMS FOR THE NURSERY. 


35 









THE CITY CHILD. 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 



Dainty little maiden 
wander ? 


whither would you 


I Whither from this pretty home, the 
home where mother dwells? 

“ Far and far away,” said the dainty little 
maiden, 













36 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


“ All among the gardens, auriculas, 

Oh, give to us daily 

anemones, roses and lilies and 

Our portion of bread ! 

canterbury-bells.” 

It is from thy bounty 

Dainty little maiden, whither would 

That all must be fed. 

you wander? 

Forgive our transgressions 

Whither from this pretty house, this 

And teach us to know 

city-house of ours. 

That humble compassion 



We Hallow Thy Name. 


“Far and far away,” said the dainty little 
maiden, 

“ All among the meadows, the clover and 
clematis, daisies and kingcups and 
honey-suckle flowers.” 


THE LORD'S ERA YER. 

MRS. SARAH J. HALE. 

Our Father in heaven, 

We hallow thy name ! 
May thy kingdom so holy 
On earth be the same! 


Which pardons each foe. 
Keep us from temptation 
From weakness and sin, 
And thine shall be glory 
Forever—Amen ! 


LOVING AND PRAYING. 

S. T. COLERIDGE. 

He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things both great and small; 
For the dear God that loveth us 
He made and loveth all. 








POEMS FOR THE NURSERY 


37 



LULLABY OF AN INFAN7 
CHIEF. 

SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


“Oh, Hush Thee, My Baby. 


Oh, hush thee, my baby, thy sire was 
a knight, 

Thy mother a lady, both lovely and 
bright; 

The woods and the glens from the 
towers which we see 
i They are all belonging, dear baby, to 
thee. 







38 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Oh fear not the bugle though loudly it 
blows, 

It calls hut the warders that guard thy 
repose; 

Their bows would be bended, their blades 
would be red, 

Ere the step of a foeman draw near to 
thy bed. 

Oh, hush thee my baby, the time soon 
will come, 

When thy sleep shall be broken by 
trumpet and drum; 

Then hush thee my darling take rest 
while you may, 

For strife comes with manhood and 
waking with day. 


WHERE SHALL THE BABY'S DIM¬ 
PLE BE? 

J. G. HOLLAND. 

Over the cradle the mother hung, 

Softly cooing a slumber song, 

And these were the simple words she 
sung, 

All the evening long: 

“ Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee, 
Where shall the baby’s dimple be ? 
Where shall the angel’s finger rest, 
When he comes down to the baby’s nest ? 
Where shall the angel’s touch remain 
When he awakens my baby again ? ” 

Still she bent and sang so low, 

A murmur into her music broke, 
And she paused to hear, for she could 
but know 

The baby’s angel spoke: 


“ Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee, 
Where shall the baby’s dimple be ? 
Where shall my finger fall and rest 
When I come down to the baby’s nest ? 
Where shall my finger’s touch remain 
When I awaken your babe again ? ” 

Silent the mother sat, and dwelt 
Long on the sweet delay of choice, 
An d then by her baby’s side she knelt 
And sang with pleasant voice : 

“ Hot on the iimD, O, Angel dear! 

For the charms with its youth will dis¬ 
appear ; 

Hot on the cheek shall the dimple be, 
For the harboring smile will fade and 
flee; 

But touch thou the chin with impress 
deep, 

And my baby the angel’s seal shall keep.” 


A CRADLE HYMN. 

ISAAC WATTS. 

Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, 
Holy angels guard thy bed ! 

Heavenly blessings without number 
Gently falling on thy head. 

Sleep, my babe ! Thy food and raiment. 
House and home thy friends provide; 

All without thy care or judgment, 

All thy wants are well supplied. 

How much better thou ’rt attended 
Than the Son of God could be; 

When from heaven he descended 
And became a child like thee. 
























































40 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Soft and easy is thy cradle ; 

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, 
When his birthplace was a stable, 

And his softest bed was hay. 

See the kinder shepherds round him 
Telling wonders from the sky ! 

There they sought him, there they found 
him, 

With his virgin mother by. 

See the lovely babe addressing ; 

Lovely infant, how he smiled ! 

When he wept the mother’s blessing 
Soothed and hushed the Holy Child. 

Lo, he slumbers in his manger, 

Where the horned oxen feed ! 

Peace, my darling, here’s no danger, 
Here’s no ox anear thy bed. 

May’st thou live to know and fear him, 
Trust and love him all thy days; 

Then go dwell forever near him, 

See his face and sing his praise ! 

I could give thee thousand kisses, 
Hoping what I most desire ; 

Not a mother’s fondest wishes 
Can to greater joys aspire. 

CHILDREN. 

MARTIN F. TUiPPER. 

Harmless, happy little treasures, 

Full of truth, and trust, and mirth; 
Richest wealth and purest pleasures 
In this mean and guilty earth. 

How I love you, pretty creatures, 
Lamb-like flock of little things, 

When the love that lights your features 
From the heart in beauty springs. 


On these laughing, rosy faces, 

There are no deep lines of sin, 

None of passion’s dreary traces 
That betray the wounds within. 

But yours is the sunny dimple, 

Radiant with untutored smiles, 

Yours the sincere and simple, 

Innocent of selfish wiles; 

Yours the natural, curling tresses, 
Prattling tongues, and shyness coy, 
Tottering steps and kind caresses, 

Pure with health, and warm with joy. 


BABY. 

GEO. MACDONALD. 

Where did you come from, baby dear ? 

Out of the everywhere into the here. 

Where did you get those eyes so blue ? 

Out of the sky as I came through. 

What makes the light in them sparkle 
and spin? 

Some of the starry spikes left in. 

Where did you get that little tear ? 

I found it waiting when I got here. 

What makes your forehead so smooth 
and high? 

A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warm, 
white rose? 

I saw something better than anyone 
knows. 

Whence that three-cornered smile of 
bliss? 

Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 








POEMS FOR THE NURSERY. 


41 


Where did you get this pearly ear ? 

G-od spoke and it came out to hear. 
Where did you get those arms and 
hands ? 

Love made itself into bonds and bands. 
Feet, whence did you come, you darling 
things ? 


From the same box as the cherub’s 
wings. 

How did they all just come to be you? 
God thought about me and so I grew. 
But how did you come to us, my dear ? 
God thought about you and so I am 
here. 



“What Makes Your Cheek Like a Warm, White Rose? * 





42 


ROYAL ECHOES 



“I’m the Stronger, and Mean to be Boss of My Pen.” 


“Mistress Hen,” says the pig, 

“ Don’t yon be quite so big ! ” 

And he gave her a push with his snout. 
“ You are rough, and you’re fat, 

But who cares for all that; 


THE PIG AND THE HTN. 

ALICE CARY. 

The pig and the hen, 

They both got in one pen, 

And the hen said she wouldn’t go out; 










































































































































POEMS FOR THE NURSERY. 


48 


I will stay if I choose,” says the hen. 

“ No, Mistress, no .longer X ” 

Says pig ; “ I’m the stronger, 

And mean to be boss of my pen ! ” 

Then the hen cackled ont 
Just as close to his snout 
As she dare; “You’re an ill-natured brute; 
Arid if I had the com, 
just as sure as I’m born 
I would send you to starve or to root! ” 

■“ But you don’t own the cribs ; 

So I think that my ribs 
Will be never the leaner for you ; 

Thjs trough is my trough, 

Arid the sooner you’re off,” 

Says the pig, “why the better you’ll do!” 

“ You’re not a bit fair, 

And you’re cross as a bear : 

What harm do I do in your pen? 

But a pig is a pig, 

And I don’t care a fig 
For the worst you can say,” says the hen. 

Says the pig, “ You will care 
If I act like a bear 

An d tear your two wings from your neck. ’ 
“ What a nice little pen 
You have got! ” says the hen, 
Beginning to scratch and to peck. 

Now the pig stood amazed, 

And the bristles, upraised 
A moment past, fell down so sleek. 
“Neighbor Biddy,” says he, 

“ If you’ll just allow me, 

I will show you a nice place to pick! ” 


So she followed him off, 

And they ate from one trough— 
They had quarreled for nothing, they saw? 
And when they had fed, 

“ Neighbor Hen,” the pig said, 

“ Won’t you stay here and roost in my 
straw?” 

“ No, I thank you ; you see 
That I sleep in a tree,” 

Says the hen ; “ but I must go away ; 

So a grateful good by.” 

“ Make your home in my sty,” 

Says the pig, “ and come in every day”- 

Now my child will not miss 
The true moral of this 
Little story of anger and strife ; 

For a word spoken soft 
Will turn enemies oft 
Into friends that will stay friends for life. 


THE CHILD'S WISH. 

WM. DA VAN ANT. 

I think, when I read that sweet story of 
old, 

When Jesus was here among men, 

How He called little children like lambs 
to His fold, 

I should like to have been with them 
then. 

Oh, I wish that His hands had been 
placed on my head, 

That His arms had been thrown around 
me, 

That I might have seen His kind look 
when He said, 

“ Let the little ones come unto Me.” 







41: 


POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


But still to His footstool in prayer I 
may go, 

And ask for a share in His love; 

And if I thus earnestly seek Him below, 

He will see me and know me above, 
In that beautiful place He has gone to 
prepare 

For all who are washed and forgiven, 
And many dear children are gathering 
there, 

“For of such is the kingdom of Heaven.” 


SONG OF SEVEN. 

JEAN INGE LOW. 

There’s no dew left on the daisies and 
clover, 

There’s no rain left in heaven ; 

I’ve said my “ seven times ” over and 
over 

Seven times one are seven. 

I am old, so old, I can write a letter ; 

My birthday lessons are done ; 

The lambs play always, they know no 
better, 

They are only one times one. 

O, moon! in the night I have seen you 
sailing, 

And shining so round and low; 

You were bright! ah, bright; but your 
light is failing; 

You are nothing now but a bow. 

You moon, have you done something 
wrong in heaven 

That God has hidden your face ? 

I hope, if you have, you will soon be for¬ 
given, 

And shine again in your place. 


O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, 

You’ve powdered your legs with gold! 

O, brave marsh mary-buds, rich and yel¬ 
low, 

Give me your money to hold ! 

O, columbine, open your folded wrapper, 

Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! 

O, cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clap¬ 
per 

That hangs in your clear green bell! 

And show me your nest with the young 
ones in it; 

I will not steal them away! 

I am old ! you may trust me, linnet, lin¬ 
net— 

I am seven times one to-day. 


SLEEP, BABY: SLEEP! 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Thy father watches his sheep ; 

Thy mother is shaking the dream-land 
tree, 

And down comes a little dream on thee. 
Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

The large stars are the sheep ; 

The little stars are the lambs, I guess . 
And the gentle moon is the shepherdess. 
Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

Our Savior loves his sheep ; 

He is the Lamb of God on high, 

Who for our sakes came down to die. 
Sleep, baby, sleep! 















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Poemd) j?or (©ftifeLftooil 

V — ■ ■ ■ ■ ~ 

U 


They are brimming with innocent laughter, 

They are blushing like blossoms of spring; 

Will the fruit of their distant hereafter 
Be as sweet as the blossoming ? 

Julia Harris May. 


SPORTS OP CHILDHOOD. 

H. W. LONGFELLOW. 


Come to me, O ye children! 

And whisper in my ear 
What the birds and the winds are singing 
In yonr snnny atmosphere. 

Come to me, O ye children! 

For I hear yon at your play, 

And the questions that perplex me 
Have vanished quite away. 

I n your hearts are the birds and the sun¬ 
shine, 

In your thoughts the brooklets flow, 
Bat in mine is the wind of autumn 
And the first fall of the snow. 

What the leaves are to the forest, 

With light and air and food, 

Ere their sweet and tender juices 
Have been hardened inta wood,— 


That, to the world, are children; 

Through them, it feels the glow 
Of a bright and sunnier climate 
Than reaches the trunks below. 

Come to me, O ye children! 

And whisper in my ear, 

What the birds and the winds are singing 
In your sunny atmosphere. 

For what are all our contrivings, 

And the wisdom of our books, 

When compared with your caresses, 

And the gladness of your looks ? 

Ye are better than all the ballads 
That ever were sung or said ; 

For ye are living poems, 

And all the rest are dead. 


51 







52 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



“You are Going to Kill the Thievish Birds.” 


THE CROW'S CHILDREN. 

PHEBE CART. 

A huntsman bearing his gun a-field, 
Went whistling merrily, 

When he heard the blackest of black 
crows 

Call out from a withered tree : 

“You are going to kill the thievish birds, 
And I would if I were you; 

But you mustn’t touch my family, 
Whatever else you do ! ” 


“ I’m only going to kill the birds 
That are eating up my crop; 

And if your young ones do such things, 
Be sure they’ll have to stop.” 

“ Oh,” said the crow, “ my children 
Are the best ones ever born ; 

There isn’t one among them all 
Would steal a grain of corn.” 

“ But how shall I know which ones they 
are ? 


























POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 53 


Do they resemble you'? ” 

“Oh, no,” said the crow, “ they’re the 
prettiest birds, 

And the whitest that ever flew! ” 

So oil went the sportsman whistling, 
And off, too, went his gun ; 

And its startling echoes never ceased 
Again till the day was done. 

And the old crow sat untroubled, 
Cawing away in her nook ; 

For she said, “ He’ll never kill my birds 
Since I told him how they look. 

“ Now there’s the hawk, my neighbor, 
She’ll see what she will see soon; 

And that saucy, whistling blackbird 
May have to change his tune ! ” 

When lo ! she saw the hunter 
Taking his homeward track, 

With a string of crows as long as his gun 
Hanging down his back. 

ft 

“ Alack, alack,” said the mother, 

“ What in the world have you done ? 

You promised to spare my pretty birds, 
And you’ve killed them every one.” 

“ Your birds ! ” said the puzzled hunter, 
Why I found them in my corn ; 

And besides they are black and ugly 
As any that ever were born! ” 

“ Get out of my sight, you stupid ! ” 

Said the angriest of crows; 

“ How good and fair her children are 
There’s none but a mother knows ! ” 


“Ah, I see, I see,” said the hunter, 

“ But not as you do quite ; 

It takes a mother to be so blind 
She can’t tell black from white ! ” 


DIRTY JACK. 

JANE TAYLOK. 

There was one little Jack, 

Hot very long back, 

- And ’tis said, to his lasting disgrace, 
That he never was seen 
With his hands at all clean, 

Hor yet ever clean was his face. 

When to work he was sent, 

He reluctantly went, 

With water to splash himself o’er ; 

But he left the black streaks 
All over his cheeks, 

And made them look worse than be¬ 
fore. 

His friends were much hurt 
To see so much dirt, 

And often and well did they scour; 

But all was in vain, 

He was dirty again 

Before they had done it an hour. 

The pigs in the dirt 

Couldn’t be more expert 

Than he was in grubbing about; 

So at last people thought 
The young gentleman ought 
To be made with four legs and a 
snout. 












54 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



THE EVENING PRAYER. 

SAm’l TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, 

God grant me grace my prayers to say : 
O, God! preserve my mother dear 
In strength and health for many a year; 
And, O! preserve my father too, 

And may I pay him reverence dne ; 

And may I my best thoughts employ 
To be my parents’ hope and joy; 

And, O! preserve my brothers both 
From evil doings and from sloth, 

And may we always love each other, 

Our friends, our father and our mother; 
And still, O Lord, to me impart 
An innocent and grateful heart, 

That after my last sleep I may 
Awake to Thy eternal day! Amen. 


BED- TIME. 

EDNA CRUGER DAVIS. 

Come, Daisy, the clock’s striking eight, 
’Tis your bed-time, my darling, you 
know, 

Put dolly away for the night, 

And kiss dear papa ere you go. 

The chickens are all fast asleep, 

Safe under their mother’s warm wings; 

You hear not a sound nor a peep 

From the queer, little, soft, fluffy 
things. 

Hark! the birdies are chirping good¬ 
night— 

How sweet from their nests in the 
trees; 


















POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


55 


The lilies are hanging their heads, He keeps you by night and by day, 

And are rocked by the murmuring j With the flowers and the birds of the air. 
breeze. 1 

Ask Him to watch o’er you to-night, 

Now kneel down, my darling, and pray— To shield you from sickness and harm, 
Thank “ Our Father ” for all His kind To bless the dear friends whom you love, 
care ; And guard with His sheltering arm. 



“Come, Daisy, the Clock’s Striking Eight.” 




















56 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


THE LOST NESTLINGS. 

HANNAH F. GOULD. 

“ Have you seen my darling nestlings ? ” 
A mother robin cried ; 

“ I cannot, cannot find them, 

Though I’ve sought them far and wide. 


“ I left them well this morning 
When I went to seek their food ; 



I Can Tell You All About Them.” 


But I found upon returning 
I’d a nest without a brood. 

“ O, have you nought to tell me, 

That will ease my aching breast, 

About my tender offspring 
That I left within the nest ? 

“ I have called them in the bushes, 
And the rolling stream beside, 

l r et they come not to my bidding, 

I’m afraid they all have died ! 

“ I can tell you all about them,” 

Said a little, wanton boy ; 

“ For ’twas I that had the pleasure 
Your nestlings to destroy. 

“ But I did not think their mother 
Her little ones would miss, 

Or even come to hail me 

With a wailing sound like this. 

“ I did not know your bosom 
Was formed to suffer woe, 

And to mourn your murdered children 
Or I had not grieved you so. 

“ I’m sorry that I’ve taken 
The lives I can’t restore, 

And this regret shall teach me 
To do the thing no more. 

“ I ever shall remember 

The plaintive sounds I’ve heard. 

ISTor kill another nestling 
To pain a mother bird! ” 












POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD 



Yon have 6eenthe man 
in the moon, and heard his 
story, perhaps, how he was 
banished there for gather¬ 
ing sticks on the Sabbath 
day. Bat. I’m told that in 
Sweden the peasants’ chil¬ 
dren see, instead of a man, 
a boy and girl in the moon, 
bearing between them a 
pail of water. This is an 
old Scandinavian legend 
known to Sweden and Nor¬ 
way in ancient times, vjhen 
their name was Scandina¬ 
via. That legend says that 
Mani,the moon, stole these 
two children, Hjnki and 
Bil, while they were draw¬ 
ing water from a well. 

They were lifted up to the 
moon along with the bucket and the well-pole and placed where they could be seen from the earth. 
When next you look at the round, full moon, if you have imagination enough, yon may see Hjnk 
and Bil with their pail of water. 


THE CHILDREN IN THE MOON. 

FROM THE SCANDINAVIAN. 

Hearken, child, unto a story, 

For the moon is in the sky, 

And, across her shield of silver, 

See two tiny cloudlets fly. 

Watch them closely, mark them sharply, 
As across the light they pass; 

Seem they not to have the figures 
Of a little lad and lass \ 


See, my child, across their shoulders 
Lies a little pole ; and lo ! 

Yonder speck is just the bucket 
Swinging softly to and fro. 

It is said these little children, 

Many and many a summer night, 
To a little well far northward, 
Wandered in the still moonlight. 

To the wayside well they trotted, 
Filled their little buckets there : 































58 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


And the moon-man, looking downward, 
Saw how beautiful they w T ere. 

Quoth the man; “ How vexed and sulky 
Looks the little, rosy boy ! 

But the little, handsome maiden 
Trips behind him full of joy. 

“ To the well behind the hedge-row, 

Trot the little lad and maiden; 

From the well behind the hedge-row 
Now the little pail is laden. 

“ How they please me! how they tempt 
me! 

Shall I snatch them up to-night ? 
Snatch them, set them here forever, 

In the middle of my light ? 

“ Children, ay, and children’s children) 
Should behold my babes on high ; 

And my babes should smile forever, 
Calling others to the sky !” 

Thus the philosophic moon-man 
Muttered many years ago ; 

Set the babes with pole and bucket, 

To delight the folks below. 

Never is the bucket empty; 

Never are the children old ; 

Ever when the moon is shining 
We, the children may behold. 

Ever young and ever little, 

Ever sweet and ever fair! 

When thou art a man, my darling, 

Still the children will be there. 


THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 

MARY HOWITT. 

“ Will you walk into my parlor?” said 
the spider to the fly. 

“ ’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever 
you did spy. 

The way into my parlor is up a winding 
stair, 

And I have many curious things to show 
when you are there.” 

u O no, no,” said the little fly; “to ask 
me is in vain, 

For who goes up your winding stair can 
ne’er come down again.” 

“ I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with 
soaring up so high. 

Will you rest upon my little bed ? ” said 
the spider to the fly. 

“ There are pretty curtains drawn around • 
the sheets are fine and thin, 

And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll 
snugly tuck you in! ” 

“ O no, no,” said the little fly, for I’ve 
often heard it said, 

They never, never wake again who sleep 
upon your bed ! ” 

Said the cunning spider to the fly: 
“Dear friend, what can I do 

To prove the warm affection I’ve always* 
felt for you? 

I have, within my pantry, good store of 
all that’s nice; 

I’m sure you’re very welcome—will you 
please to take a slice ?” 






POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


59 



“ O no, no,” said the little fly; “ kind 
sir, that cannot be ; 

I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and \ 
do not wish to see! ” 

“ Sweet creature! ” said the spider; 
“ you’re witty and you’re wise ; 

How handsome are your gauzy wings! 
how brilliant are your eyes! 

I have a little looking-glass upon my 
parlor shelf ; 


So he wove a subtle web in a little cor¬ 
ner sly, 

And set his table ready to dine upon the 

%; 

Then came out to his door again and 
merrily did sing: 

“ Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with 
the pearl and silver wing; 

Your robes are green and purple; there’s 
a crest upon your head; 


If You Will Step in a Moment, Dear.” 


If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you 
shall behold yourself.” 

“ I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for 
what you’re pleased to say; 

And, bidding you good-morning now, 
I’ll call another day.” 

The spider turned him round about, and 
went into his den, 

Tor well he knew the silly fly would 
soon come back again; 


Your eyes are like the diamond bright, 
but mine are dull as lead ! ” 

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly, lit¬ 
tle fly, 

Hearing his wily, flattering words, came 
slowly flitting by; 

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then 
near and nearer drew, 

Thinking only of her brilliant eyes and 
green and purple hue; 





60 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Thinking only of her crested head. Poor, 
foolish thing, at last 

Up jumped the cunning spider, and 
fiercely held her fast. 

He dragged her up his winding stair, 
into his dismal den— 

Within his little parlor—but she ne’er 
came out again ! 

And now, dear little children who may 
this story read, 

To idle, silly flattering words I pray you 
ne’er give heed; 

Unto an evil counselor close heart and 
ear and eye, 

And take a lesson from this tale of the 
spider and the fly. 


A LEGEND OF THE NORTHLAND. 

ALICE CARY. 

Away, away in the Northland, 

Where the hours of the day are few, 

And the nights are so long in winter, 
They cannot sleep them through. 

Where they harness the swift reindeer 
To the sledges when it snows ; 

And the children look like bear cubs, 

In their funny, furry clothes; 

They tell them a curious story— 

I don’t believe ’tis true ; 

And yet you may learn a lesson 
If I tell the tale to you. 

Once, when the good Saint Peter 
Lived in the world below, 


And walked about preaching, 

Just as he did you know; 

He came to the door of a cottage, 

In traveling round the earth, 

W here a little woman was making cakes 
In the ashes on the hearth, 

And being faint with fasting— 

For the day was almost done— 

He asked her, from her store of cakes, 

To give him a single one. 

So she made a very little cake, 

But, as it baking lay, 

She looked at it and thought it seemed 
Too large to give away. 

Therefore she kneaded another, 

And still a smaller one ; 

But it looked, when she turned it over 
As large as the first had done. 

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough, 
And rolled and rolled it flat; 

And baked it thin as a wafer— 

But she couldn’t part with that; 

For she said, “My cakes that seem so 
small 

When I eat of them myself, 

Are yet too large to give away.” 

So she put them on a shelf. 

Then good Saint Peter grew angry, 

For he was hungry and faint; 

And surely such a woman 

Was enough to provoke a saint. 








POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


61 


And lie said, “ You are far too selfish 
To dwell in a human form ; 

To have both food and shelter, 

And fir® to keep you warm. 

“ Now, you shall build as the birds do, 
And shall get your scanty food, 

By boring, and boring, and boring, 

All day in the hard, dry wood.” 

Then up she went through the chimney ? 

Never speaking a word ; 

And out of the top flew a woodpecker, 
For she was changed to a bird. 

She had a scarlet cap on her head, 

And that was left the same; 

But all the rest of her clothes were burned 
Black as coal in the flames. 

And every country school-boy 
Has seen her in- the wood ; 

Where she lives in the trees till this very 
day, 

Boring and boring for food. 

And this is the lesson she teaches : 

Live not for yourselves alone, 

Lest the needs you will not pity 
Shall one day be your own. 

Give plenty of what is given to you, 
Listen to pity’s call; 

Don’t think the little you give is great, 
And the much you get is small. 

Now, my little boy, remember that, 

And try to be kind and good; 

When you see the woodpecker’s sooty 
dress, 

And see her scarlet hood. 


You mayn’t be changed to a bird, 
though you live 
As selfish as you can ; 

But you will be changed to a smaller 
thing-— 

A mean and selfish man. 


THE MONTHS. 

SARA COLERIDGE. 

January brings the snow, 

Makes our feet and fingers glow. 

February brings the rain, 

Thaws the frozen lake again. 

March brings breezes loud and shrill, 
Stirs the dancing daffodil. 

April brings the primrose sweet, 
Scatters daisies at our feet. 

May brings flocks of pretty lambs. 
Skipping by their fleecy dams. 

June brings tulips, lilies, roses, 

Fills the children’s hands with posies. 

Hot July brings cooling showers, 
Apricots and gilliflowers. 

August brings the sheaves of corn, 
Then the harvest home is borne. 

Warm September brings the fruit, 
Sportsmen then begin to shoot. 

Fresh October brings the pheasant, 
Then to gather nuts is pleasant. 

Dull November brings the blast, 
Then the leaves are whirling fast. 

Chill December brings the sleet, 
Blazing fire and Christmas treat. 









62 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. 

MARY HOWITT. 

Buttercups and daisies. 

O, the pretty flowers ! 
Coming ere the spring-time, 

To tell of sunny hours, 

While the trees are leafless, 
While the fields are bare, 
Buttercups and daisies 
Spring up everywhere; 

Little hardy flowers, 

Like to children poor 
Playing in their sturdy health, 


By their mother’s door; 

Purple with the north wind, 

Yet alert and bold, 

Fearing not, and caring not, 

Though they may be cold. 

What to them is weather? 

What are stormy showers ? 
Buttercups and daisies 
Are these human flowers ? 

He who gave them hardships 
And a life of care, 

Gave them likewise hardy strength, 
And patient hearts to bear. 





POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD 


(>3 


TWINKLE! TWINKLE! LITTLE 
STAR ! 

JANE TAYLOR. 

Twinkle! twinkle ! little star! 
How I wonder what you are: 

Up above the world so high, 

Like a diamond in the sky. 

When the blazing sun is gone, 
When he nothing shines upon ; 
Then you show your little light; 
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. 

The poor traveler in the dark 
Thanks God for your tiny spark; 
Could he tell which way to go, 

If you did not twinkle so ? 

In the dark blue sky you keep, 
Sweetly through my curtain peep; 
And you never shut your eye 
Till the sun is in the sky. 

, Up above the world so high, 

Like a diamond in the sky ; 
Though I know not what you are, 
Twinkle ! twinkle ! little star ! 


THE BUSY BEE. 

ISAAC WATTS. 



How doth the little busy bee, 
Improve each shining hour; 
And gather honey all the day 
From every opening flower. 

How skillfully she builds her cell, 
How neatly spreads the wax ; 
And labors hard to store it well 
With the sweet food she makes. 


“How I Wonder What You Are.” 

In works of labor or of skill 
I would be busy too ; 

For Satan finds some mischief still 
For idle hands to do. 

In books, or work, or healthful p 7 ay, 
Let my first years be passed ; 

That I may give for every day 
Some good account at last. 






64 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


THE LITTLE STRANGER'S 
ARRIVA L. 

The Lady Moon came down last night— 
She did, you needn’t doubt it— 

A lovely lady dressed in white ; 

I’ll tell you all about it. 


Between the window bars to see 
If all the folks are sleeping, 

And then, if both of you keep still, 
And all the room is shady, ^ 
She’ll float across the window-sill, 

A bonnie white moon-lady. 



“ They Hurried Len Axd Me To Bed.” 


They hurried Len and me to bed, 
And aunty said “ Now, maybe 
That pretty moon up overhead 
Will bring us down a baby. 

“ You lie as quiet as can be ; 

Perhaps you’ll catch her peeping 


“ Across the sill, along the floor, 
You’ll see her shining brightly, 
Until she comes to mother’s door, 
And then she’ll vanish lightly, 
But, in the morning, you will find, 
If nothing happens, maybe, 



















































POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


65 


She’s left us something nice behind— 

A beautiful star-baby.” 

We didn’t just believe her then, 

For aunty’s always chaffing ; 

The tales she tells to me and Len 
Would make you die a-laughing. 

And when she went out, pretty soon, 

Len said, “ That’s aunty’s humming ; 

There ain’t a bit of lady-moon, 

Nor any baby coming.” 

I thought, myself, it was a lib, 

And yet I wasn’t certain ; 

So I kept quiet in the crib, 

And peeped behind the curtain. 

I didn’t mean to sleep a wink, 

But, all without a warning, 

I dropped right off—and don’t you think, 
I never waked till morning ! 

Then, there was aunty by my bed, 

And when I climbed and kissed her. 

She laughed and said, “You sleepy head ! 
You’ve got a little sister! 

What made you shut your eyes so soon '{ 
I’ve half a mind to scold you— 

For down she came, that lady moon, 
Exactly as I told you! ” 

And, truly, it was not a joke, 

In spite of Len’s denying, 

For, just the very time she spoke, 

We heard the baby crying. 

The way we jumped and made a rush 
For mother’s room that minute ! 

But aunty stopped us, crying, “ Hush ! 
Or else you shan’t go in it.” 

And so we had to tip-toe in, 

And keep as awful quiet, 


As if it was a mighty sin 
To make a bit of riot. 

But there was a baby, anyhow— 

The funniest, little midget! 

I just wish you could peep in now. 

And see her squirm and fidget. 

Len says he don’t believe it’s true— 

He isn’t such a gaby— 

The moon had anything to do 
With bringing us that baby. 

But seems to me it’s very clear, 

As clear as running water— 

Last night there was no baby here, 

So something must have brought her! 



“ That Pretty Moon Up Overhead 
Will Bring Us Down a Baby.” 









66 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


ANSWER TO A CHILD'S 
QUESTION. 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



“You Ask What the Birds Say?” 


Do you ask wliat the birds say? 

The sparrow, the dove, 

The linnet and thrush, say “ I 
love I I love ! ” 

In winter they are silent— 
the wind is so strong, 

What it says I don’t know, but 
it sings a loud song. 

But green leaves and blossoms, 
and sunny, warm weather, 
And singing and living all 
come back together. 

But the lark is so brimful of 
gladness and love, 

The green fields below him, the 
blue sky above, 

That he sings, and he sings, and 
forever sings he— 
u I love my Love and my Love 
loves me!” 


ANNIE AND WILLIES PRAYER. 

SOPHIA P. SNOW. 

’Twas the eve before Christmas, “ Good¬ 
night ” had been said ; 

And Annie and Willie had crept into bed; 

There were tears on their pillow and 
tears in their eyes, 

And each little bosom was heaving with 
sighs, 


For to-night their stern father’s com¬ 
mand had been given 

That they should retire precisely at 
seven— 

Instead of at eight—for they troubled 
him more 

With questions unheard of than ever be¬ 
fore; 

He had told them he thought this delu¬ 
sion a sin, 










POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 



“And The Very Gifts Prayed For Were All Of Them Found.” 
















68 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


No such creature as “ Santa Claus ” ever 
had been, 

And he hoped, after this, he should 
nevermore hear 

How he scrambled down chimneys with 
presents each year. 

And this was the reason that two little 
heads 

So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy 
beds. 

Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple 
tolled ten, 

Not a word had been spoken by either 
till then, 

When Willie’s sad face from the blanket 
did peep 

As he whispered, ‘ Dear Annie, is ’ou 
fast asleep ? ” 

“ Why no, brother Willie,” a sweet 
voice replies, 

“ I’ve long tried in vain but I can’t shut 
my eyes, 

For somehow it makes me so sorry because 

Dear papa has said there is no ‘ Santa 
Claus.’ 

Now we know there is, and it can’t be 
denied, 

For he came every year before mamma 
died ; 

But then, I’ve been thinking that she 
used to pray 

And God would hear everything mamma 
would say, 

And may be she asked Him to send 
Santa Claus here; 

With the sack full of presents he brought 
every year.” 


“ Well, why tan’t we pray dest as mamma 
did den, 

And ask Dod to send him with presents 
aden ? ” 

“I’ve been thinking so, too;” and with¬ 
out a word more 

Four little bare feet bounded out on the 
floor, 

And four little knees the soft carpet 
pressed, 

And two tiny hands were clasped close 
to each breast; 

“ Now, Willie, you know we must flrmly 
believe 

That the presents we ask for we’re sure 
to receive ; 

You must wait just as still till I say 
the ‘Amen,’ 

And by that you will know that your 
turn has come then: 

Dear Jesus, look down on my brother 
and me, 

And grant us the favor we are asking of 
Thee, 

I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring, 

And an ebony work-box, that shuts with 
a spring; 

Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to 
see, 

That Santa Claus loves us as much as 
does he; 

Don’t let him get fretful and angry 
again, 

At dear brother Willie and Annie. 
Amen.” 

“ Please, Desus, et Santa Taus turn down 
to-night, 





POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


69 


And bring us some presents before it is 
light; 

I want he should div me a nice ’ittle 
sed, 

With bright shin’en’ runners, and all 
painted red ; 

A box full of tandy, a book and a toy, 

Amen, and then Desus, I’ll be a dood 
boy.” 

Their prayers being ended, they raised 
up their heads 

And, with hearts light and cheerful, again 
sought their beds; 

They were soon lost in slumber, both 
peaceful and deep, 

And with fairies in Dreamland were 
roaming in sleep. 

Eight, nine, and the little French clock 
had struck ten, 

Ere the father had thought of his chil¬ 
dren again. 

He seems now to hear Annie’s half-sup¬ 
pressed sighs, 

And to see the big tears stand in Wil¬ 
lie’s blue eyes. 

“I was harsh with my darlings,” he 
mentally said, 

“ And should not have sent them so early 
to bed; 

But then I was troubled; my feelings 
found vent, 

For bank stock to-day has gone down ten 
per cent. 

But of course they’ve forgotten their 
troubles ere this, 

And that I denied them their thrice- 
asked-for kiss. 


But just to make sure I’ll steal up to 
their door, 

For I never spoke harsh to my darlings 
before.” 

So saying, he softly ascended the 
stairs, 

And arrived at the door to hear both of 
their prayers; 

His Annie’s “ Bless papa ” drew forth 
the big tears, 

And Willie’s grave promise fell sweet on 
his ears; 

“ Strange, strange I’d forgotten,” said 
he with a sigh, 

“ How I longed when a child to have 
Christmas draw nigh. 

I’ll atone for my harshness,” he inwardly 
said; 

“By answering their prayers ere I sleep 
in my bed.” 

Then turned to the stairs and softly went 
down, 

Threw off velvet slippers and silk dress¬ 
ing gown, 

Donned hat, coat and boots and was out 
in the street— 

A millionaire facing the cold, driving 
sleet! 

Hor stopped he until he had bought 
everything, 

From the box full of candy to the tiny, 
gold ring. 

Indeed, he kept adding so much to his 
store 

That the various presents outnumbered 
a score; 

Then homeward he turned, when his 
holiday load, 




70 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


With Aunt Mary’s help in the nursery 
was stowed. 

Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine 
tree, 

By the side of a table spread out for her 
tea; 

A work-box well-filled in the center was 
laid, 

And on it the ring for which Annie had 
prayed; 

A soldier in uniform stood by a sled, 

“ With bright, shining runners and all 
painted red.” 

There were balls, dogs and horses, books 
pleasing to see, 

And birds of all colors were perched in 
the tree; 

While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up 
in the top, 

As if getting ready more presents to 
drop ; 

And as the fond father the picture sur¬ 
veyed, 

He thought for his trouble he had amply 
been paid ; 

And he said to himself as he brushed off 
a tear, 

“ I’m happier to-night than I’ve been for 
a year; 

I’ve enjoyed more true pleasure than 
ever before, 

What care I, if bank stock falls ten per 
cent more ! 

Hereafter, I’ll make it a rule, I believe, 

To have Santa Claus visit us each Christ¬ 
mas Eve.” 

So thinking, he gently extinguished the 
light, 


And tripping down stairs retired fur the 
night. 

As soon as the beams of the bright, 
morning sun 

Put the darkness to flight, and the stars 
one by one, 

Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened 
wide, 

And at the same moment the presents 
espied; 

Then out of their beds they sprang with 
a bound 

And the very gifts prayed for were all 
of them found. 

They laughed and they cried in their 
innocent glee, 

And shouted for papa, to come quick and 

see 

What presents old Santa Claus brought 
in the night— 

(Just the things that they wanted), and 
left before light; 

“ And now,” added Annie, in voice soft 
and low, 

“ You’ll believe there’s a ‘ Santa Claus,’ 
papa, I know ; ” 

While dear, little Willie climbed up on 
his knee, 

Determined no secret between them 
should be, 

And told in soft whispers how Annie 
had said, 

That their dear, blessed mamma, so long 
ago dead, 

Used to kneel down and pray by the side 
of her chair, 

And that God up in Heaven had an¬ 
swered her prayer. 





POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


71 


“ Den we dot up and prayed dust as well 
as we tould, 

And Dod answered our prayers ; now, 
wasn’t lie dood ? ” 

“ I should say that He was, if He sent 
you all these, 

And knew just what presents my chil¬ 
dren would please, 

(Well, well, let him think so, the dear, 
little elf; 

’Twould be cruel to tell him I did it my¬ 
self !”) 

Blind father! who caused your stern 
heart to relent, 

And the hasty words spoken, so soon to 
repent ? 

’Twas the Being who bade you steal 
softly up stairs, 

And make you His agent to answer 
their prayers. 


BEAST AND MAN ARE BROTHERS. 

BAYARD TAYBOR. 

Little one, come to my knee ! 

Hark, how the rain is pouring 
Over the roof, in the pitch-black night, 
And the wind in the woods a-roaring ! 

Hush, my darling, and listen, 

Then pay for the story with kisses; 
Father was lost in the pitch-black night, 
In just such a storm as this is ! 

High up on the lonely mountains, 
Where the wild men watched and 
waited, 


Wolves in the forest, and bears in the 
hush, 

And I on my path belated. 

The rain and the night together 

Came down, and the wind came after, 
Bending the props of the pine tree roof, 
And snapping many a rafter. 



I crept along in the darkness, 

Stunned, and bruised, and blinded— 
Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs, 

And a sheltering rock behind it. 

There, from the blowing and raining, 
Crouching, I sought to hide me; 
Something rustled, two green eyes shone, 
And a wolf lay down beside me. 











7 2 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Little one, be not frightened ; 

I and the wolf together, 

Side by side, through the long, long night 
Hid from the awful weather. 

His wet fur pressed against me ; 

Each of us warmed the other; 

Each of us felt in the stormy dark, 

That beast and man were brother. 


And when the falling forest 
Ho longer crashed in warning, 

Each of us went from our hiding-place 
Forth in the wild, wet morning. 

Darling, kiss me payment! 

Hark, how the wind is roaring ; 
Father’s house is a better place 
When the stormy rain is pouring 1 


THE SINGING LESSON. 

JEAN INGELOW. 

A nightingale made a mistake; 
She sang a few notes out of 
tune; 

Her heart was ready to break, 
And sbe hid from the moon, 

And wrung her claws, poor thing, 
But was far too proud to speak; 

She tucked her head under her 
wing, 

And pretended to be asleep. 

A lark, arm-in-arm with a thrush, 
Came sauntering up to the 
place; 

The nightingale felt herself 
blush, 

Though feathers hid her face ; 

She knew they had heard her 
song, 



She felt them snicker and sneer; 

She thought this life was too long, 
And wished she could skip a year. 

“ O, nightingale ! ” cooed a dove, 

“ O, nightingale! what’s the use ; 
You bird of beauty and love. 

Why behave like a goose ? 


“She Only Sang to the Skies.” 

“ Don’t skulk away from our sight, 
Like a common, contemptible fowl; 
You bird of joy and delight, 

Why behave like an owl ? 

“ Only think of all you have done ; 
Only think of all you can do ; 






POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


73 


A false note is really fun 
From such a bird as you. 

Lift up your proud little crest; 

Open your musical beak ; 

Other birds have to do their best, 
You need only to speak.” 

The nightingale shyly took 

Her head from under her wing, 
And giving the dove a look, 
Straightway began to sing. 

There was never a bird could pass; 



“Now Let the Old Cat Die.” 


The night was divinely calm ; 
And the people stood on the grass 
To hear that wonderful psalm! 

The nightingale did not care, 

She only sang to the skies ; 

Her song ascended there, 

And there she fixed her eyes. 
The people that stood below 
She knew but little about; 

And this story’s a moral, I know, 
If you’ll try to find it out! 


LETTING THE OLD CAT DIE. 

MARY MATES DODGE. 

Hot long ago I wandered near 
A play-ground in the wood; 

And there heard words from a young¬ 
ster’s lips 

That I never quite understood. 

! “ Now let the old cat die ! ” he laughed; 
I saw him give a push, 

Then gayly scamper away as he spied 
A face peep over the bush. 

But what he pushed, or where he went, 
I could not well make out, 

On account of the thicket of bending 
boughs 

That bordered the place about. 

! “ The little villain has stoned a cat, 

Or hung it upon a limb 
And left it to die all alone,” I said ; 

“ But I’ll play the mischief with him.” 








n 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


I forced my way through the bending 
boughs, 

The poor, old cat to seek; 

And what did I iind but a swinging 
child, 

With her bright hair brushing her 
cheek! 

Her bright hair floated to and fro. 

Her little, red dress flashed by, 

But the loveliest thing of all, I thought, 
Was the gleam of her laughing eye. 

Swinging and swaying back and forth, 
With the rose light in her face, 

She seemed like a bird and flower in one, 
And the forest her native place. 

Steady ! I’ll send you up, my child 
But she stopped me with a cry,— 


“Go ’way, go ’way! don’t touch me, please; 
I’m letting the old cat die” 

“ You’re letting him die ?” I cried, aghast; 

“ Why; where’s the cat, my dear V' 
And lo ! the laugh that filled the wood 
Was a thing for the birds to hear. 

“ Why, don’t you know ?” said the little 
maid, 

The sparkling, beautiful elf,— 

“ That we call it, letting the old cat die 
When the swing stops all of itself ? ” 

Then swinging and swaying, and look¬ 
ing back 

With the merriest look in her eye, 

She bade me good-by, and I left her 
alone, 

‘ Letting the old cat die.’ ” 


THE KITTEN'S JOKE. 

WM. COWPER. 

As in her little mistress’ 
lap 

The youthful tabby lay, 
They gave each other 
many a tap, 

Alike disposed to play. 


But strife ensues; Puss 
waxes warm, 

And with pro¬ 
truding claws j 

Ploughs up the ' - ! -'^1 
length of Ly¬ 
dia’s arm, 



Mere wantonness the cause. 

At once, resentful of the deed, 
She shakes her to the 
ground, 

With many a threat that she 
shall bleed 

With still a deeper wound. 

But Lydia, bid thy fury rest; 

It was a venial stroke ; 

For she that will with kittens 
jest 



\ ' K Vi “ , 

>.I ft 








POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


75 


THE ARK AND DOVE. 

A meek dove flew. 

MRS. SIGOURNEY. 

But on that shoreless tide 

There was a noble ark, 

Ho living thing she spied 

Sailing o’er waters dark 

To cheer her view. 

And wide around ; 


Hot one tall tree was seen, 

So to the ark she fled, 



Not One Tall Tree was Seen/ 


Nor flower, nor leaf of green,— 
All, all was drowned. 

Then a soft wing was spread, 
And o’er the billows dread 


With weary, drooping head, 
To seek for rest; 

Christ is the ark, my love, 
Thon art the tender dove, 
Fly to His breast. 











76 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



THE LITTLE ORATOR. 

E. EVERETT. 

You’d scarce expect one of my age 
To speak in public on the stage ; 

And if I chance to fall beiOW 
Demosthenes or Cicero, 

Don’t view me with a critic’s eye 
But pass my imperfections by; 

Large streams from little fountains flow; 
Tall oaks from little acorns grow. 


LET THE CLOTH BE WHITE. 

WILL CARLTON. 

Go set the table, Mary, an’ let the cloth 
be white! 

The hungry city children are cornin’ 
here to-night; 

The children from the city, with features 
pinched and spare, 

Are coinin’ here to get a breath of God’s 
untainted air. 

































































































78 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


They come from out the dungeons, where 
they with want were chained, 

From places dark an’ dismal, by tears of 
sorrow stained; 

From where a thousand shadows are 
murdering all the light; 

Set well the table, Mary, dear, and let 
the cloth be white ! 

They ha’ not seen the daisies made for 
the heart’s behoof; 

They never heard the rain-drops upon a 
cottage roof; 

They do not know the kisses of zephyr 
an’ of breeze; 

They never rambled wild an’ free be¬ 
neath the forest trees. 

The food that they ha’ eaten was spoiled 
by others’ greeds; 

The very air their lungs breathed was 
full o’ poison seeds; 

The very air their souls breathed was full 
o’ wrong an’ spite; 

Go set the table, Mary, dear, an’ let the 
cloth be white. 

The fragrant water-lilies ha’ never smiled 
at them ; 

They never picked a wild flower from 
off its dewy stem 

They never saw a greensward that they 
could safely pass 

Unless they heeded well the sign that 
says, “ Keep off the grass.” 

God bless the men and women of noble 
brain an’ heart 


Who go down in the folk-swamps an’ 
take the children’s part!— 

Those hungry, cheery children that keep 
us in their debt, 

And never fail to give us more of pleas¬ 
ure than they get! 

Set well the table, Mary ; let naught be 
scant or small; 

The little ones are coming; have plenty 
for ’em all, 

There’s nothing we should furnish ex¬ 
cept the very best 

To those that Jesus looked upon an’ 
called to him an’ blessed. 


TO THE CHILDREN. 

PHEBE CARY. 

Dear little children, where’er you be, 
Who are watched and cherished tenderly 
By father and by mother; 

Who are comforted by the love that lies 
In the kindly depths of a sister’s eyes, 
Or the helpful words of a brother. 

I charge you, by the years to come, 
When some shall be far away from your 
home, 

And some shall be gone forever ; 

By all you will have to feel at the last, 
When you stand alone and think of the 
past, 

That you speak unkindly never ! 

For cruel words, nay, even less, 

Words spoken only in thoughtlessness, 
j Nor kept against you after ; 








POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


79 



If they make the face of a mother sad, 
Or a tender sister’s heart less glad, 

Or checked a brother’s laughter; 

Will rise again, and they will be heard, 
And every thoughtless, foolish word 


That ever your lips have spoken. 
After the lapse of years and years, 
Will wring from you such bitter tears 
As fall when the heart is broken. 

May you never, never have to say, 


When a name from the past on some 
dreary day 

Its wreck at your feet is strewing; 

“ My father had not been bowed so low, 
N or my mother left us long ago, 

But for deeds of my misdoing ! ” 

May you never stand alone to weep, 
Where a little sister lies asleep, 

With the flowery turf upon her, 
And know you would have gone down 
to the dead 

To save one curl of her shining head 
From sorrow or dishonor; 


Yet have to think, with bitter tears, 
Of some little sin of your childish 
years, 

Till your soul is anguish-riven; 

And cry, when there comes no word 
or smile, 

“ I sinned, but I loved you aM the 
while, 

And I wait to be forgiven ! ” 

May you never say of a brother dear, 
“ Did I do enough to aid and cheer, 
Did I try to help and guide him \ 
How the snares of the world about 
him lie, 

And if unhonored he live and die, 

I shall wish I were dead beside him!” 
Dear, little, innocent, precious ones, 
Be loving, dutiful daughters and sons, 
To father and to mother; 

And, to save yourselves from the bitter 
pain 

That comes when regret and remorse are 
vain, 

Be good to one another! 





















ROYAL ECHOES. 


YOUNG DANDELION. 

DINAH M. MULOCK. 

Young Dandelion 
On a hedge-side : 

Said young Dandelion : 

“ Who’ll be my bride ? 

“I’m a bold fellow 
As ever was seen, 

With my shield of yellow 
In the grass green. 


“ You may uproot me 
From field and from lane, 
Trample me, cut me—‘ 

I spring up again. 

“ I never flinch, sir, 
Wherever I dwell; 

Give me an inch, sir, 

I’ll soon take an ell. 

“ Drive me from garden 
In anger and pride, 



Said young 
Dandelion, 
On his hedge- 
side: 

“ Who’ll me 
rely on, 
“Who’ll be 
my bride?” 


I’ll thrive and harden 
By the roadside. 

“ Not a bit fearful, 
Showing my face 
Always so cheerful 
In every place.” 

Said young Dandelion, 
With a sweet air: 


“ I have my eye on 
Miss Daisy fair. 

Though we may tarry 
Till past the cold, 

Her will I marry 
Ere I grow old. 

“ I will protect her 

From all kinds of harm, 

Feed her with nectar, 

Shelter her warm. 

“ Whate’er the weather, 
Let it go by. 

We’ll hold together, 

Daisy and I. 


“I’ll ne’er give 
in—no ! 

Nothing I 
fear; 

All that I win, 
oh ! 

I’ll keep for 
my dear.” 









POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD 


81 


A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 

t 

CLEMENT C. MOORE 

’Twas the night before Christmas, when 
all through the house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a 
mouse; 


The stockings were hung by the chimney 
with care, 

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be 
there. 

The children w^ere nestled all snug in 
their beds, 

While visions of sugar-plums danced in 
their heads. 



A Miniature Sleigh and Eight Tiny Reindeer. 
































82 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


And mamma in her kerchief, and I in 
my cap, 

Had just settled our brains for a long 
winter’s nap,— 

When out on the lawn there arose such 
a clatter, 

I sprang from my bed to see what was 
the matter. 

Away to the window I flew like a flash, 

Tore open the shutters and threw up the 
sash, 

The moon on the breast of the new 
fallen snow 

Gave a luster of mid-day to objects be¬ 
low. 

When what to my wondering eyes 
should appear, 

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny 
reindeer; 

With a little, old driver, so lively and 
quick 

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 

More rapid than eagles his coursers they 
came, 

And he whistled, and shouted, and called 
them by name: 

“ Now, Dasher! now, Dancer ! now, 
Prancer and Yixen! 

On, Comet, on, Cupid, on, Donder and 
Blitzen ! 

To the top of the porch ! To the top of 
the wall! 

Now, dash away, dash away, dash away, 
all!” 

As dry leaves before the wild hurricane 

%> 

When they meet with an obstacle, mount 
to the sky, 


So up to the housetop the coursers they 
flew, 

With the sleigh full of toys and St. 
Nicholas too. 

And then in a twinkling I heard on the 
roof 

The prancing and pawing of each little 
hoof. 

As I drew in my head, and was turning 
around, 

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came 
with a bound. 

He was dressed all in fur, from his head 
to his foot, 

And his clothes were all tarnished with 
ashes and soot; 

A bundle of toys he had flung on his 
back, 

And he looked like a peddler just open¬ 
ing liis pack; 

His eyes how they twinkled! his dim¬ 
ples, how merry! 

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like 
a cherry, 

His droll, little mouth was drawn up like 
a bow, 

And the beard on his chin was as white 
as the snow; 

The stump of a pipe he held tight in 
his' teeth 

And the smoke, it encircled his head like 
a wreath; 

He had a broad face and a little round 
belly 

That shook, when he laughed, like a 
bowl full of jelly; 

He was chubby and plump,—a right jolly 
old elf; 





POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


83 


And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite 
of myself. 

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, 

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to 
dread. 

He spoke not a word, but went straight 
to his work 

And filled all the stockings, then turned 
with a jerk, 

And passing his finger aside of his nose, 

And giving a nod, up the chimney he 
rose; 

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave 
a whistle 

An d away they all flew like the down of 
a thistle; 

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove 
out of sight, 

u Happy Christmas to all, and to all a 
good night! ” 


KINDNESS TO ANIMALS. 

MARTIN F. TUPPER. 

O boys and men of British mould, 

With mother’s milk within you! 

A simple word for young and old, 

A word to warn and win you ; 

You’ve each and all got human hearts, 
As well as human features; 

So hear me, while I take the parts 
Of all the poor dumb creatures. 

I wot your lot is sometimes rough; 

But their’s is something rougher,— 

No hopes, no loves,—but pain enough, 
An d only sense to suffer; 

You men and boys, have friends and joys, 


And homes, and hopes in measure,— 

But these poor brutes are only mutes, 
And never knew a pleasure! 

A little water, chaff and hay, 

And sleep the boon of Heaven,— 

How great returns for these have they, 
To your advantage given; 

And yet the worn-out horse or ass 
Who makes your daily gaining, 

Is paid with goad and thong, alas! 
Though nobly uncomplaining. 

Stop, cruel boy, you mean no ill, 

But never thought aboift it,— 

Why beat that patient donkey still ? 

He goes as well without it. 

Here, taste and try a cut or two,— 

Ha! you can shout and feel it. 

Boy, that was mercy’s hint to you,— 

In shorter measure deal it. 

Load for’ard; neither goad nor flog; 

For rest your beast is flagging; 

And do not let that willing dog, 

Tear out his heart with dragging. 

Wait, wait awhile ; those axles grease, 
And shift this buckle’s fretting; 

And give that galling collar ease,— 

How grateful is he getting! 

So poor yourselves, and short of joys, 
Unkindly used, unfairly, 

I sometimes wonder, men and boys, 
You’re merciful so rarely. 

If you have felt how hunger gripes, 
Why famish and ill use them ? 

If you’ve been wealed by sores and 
stripes, 

How can you beat and bruise them? 





84 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


SIR LARK AND HIS WIFE. 



GEORGE MACDONALD. 

“ Good -morrow, my lord!” in the sky 
alone 

Sang the lark as the sun ascended his 
throne: 

“Shine on me, my lord; I only am come, 

Of all your servants, to welcome you 
home. 

I have flown for an hour, right up, I 
declare, 

To catch the first shine of your golden 
hair.” 

“ Must I thank you, then,” said the king, 
“ Sir Lark, 

Lor flying so high, and hating the dark ? 

You ask a full cup for half a thirst, 

Half is love of me, and half love to the 
first. 

There’s many a bird that makes no haste, 

But waits till I come. That’s as much to 
my taste.” 

And the king hid his head in a turban of 
cloud; 

And the lark stopped singing, quite vexed 
and cowed. 










POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


85 


But he flew up higher, and thought, 
“ Anon 

The wrath of the king will be over and 
gone, 

And his crown, shining out of the cloudy 
fold, 

Will change my brown feathers to glory 
of gold.’’ 

So he flew—with the strength of a lark 
he flew, 

But, as he rose, the cloud rose, too; 

And not a gleam of the golden hair 

Came through the depth of the misty air } 

Till weary with flying, with sighing sore, 

The strong sun-seeker could do no 
more. 

His wings had had no chrism of gold, 

And his feathers felt withered, and worn, 
and old; 

And lie sank, and quivered, and dropped 
like a stone, 

And there on her nest, where he left her 
alone, 

Sat his little wife on her little eggs, 

Keeping them warm with wings and 
legs. 

Did I say alone ? Ah, no such thing! 

Full in her face was shining the king. * 

“ Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired,” 
said he; 

Up is not always the best way to me. 

While you have been singing so high and 
away, 

I’ve been shining to your little wife all 
day.” 


He had set his crown all about the nest, 

And out of the midst shone her little 
brown breast; 

And so glorious was she in russet and 
gold, 

. That for wonder and awe Sir Lark grew 
cold. 

He popped his head under his wing, and 
lay 

As still as a stone till the king was away. 


THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. 

How ponder well, you parents dear, 

The words which I shall write ; 

A doleful story you shall hear, 

In time brought forth to light; 

A gentleman of s good account, 

In Norfolk lived of late, 

Whose wealth and riches did surmount 
Most men of his estate. 

Sore sick he was and like to die ; 

Ho help then he could have; 

His wife by him as sick did lie, 

And both possessed one grave. 

Ho love between these two was lost, 

Each was to other kind ; 

In love they lived, in love they died, 
And left two babes behind; 

The one a fine and pretty boy, 

Hot passing three years old; 

The other a girl, more young than he, 
And made in beauty’s mold. 

! The father left his little son, 

As plainly doth appear, 

! When he to perfect age should come, 
Three hundred pounds a year;— 



































































































































POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


87 


And to his little daughter, Jane, 

Five hundred pounds in gold, 

To be paid down on marriage-day, 

Which might not be controlled; 

But if the children chanced to die, 

Ere they to age should come, 

Their uncle should possess their wealth, 
For so the will did run. 

“Now, brother,” said the dying man, 

“ Look to my children dear; 

Be good unto my boy and girl, 

No friends else I have here.” 

With that bespake their mother dear, 

“ O brother kind,” quoth she, 

“You are the man must bring our babes 
To wealth or misery. 

“ And if you keep them carefully, 

Then God will you reward; 

If otherwise you seem to deal, 

God will your deeds regard.” 

With lips as cold as any stone 
She kissed her children small; 

“ God bless you both, my children dear,” 
With that the tears did fall. 

Their parents being dead and gone, 

The children home he takes, 

And brings them home unto his house, 
And much of them he makes. 

He had not kept these pretty babes, 

A twelvemonth and a day, 

But, for their wealth, he did devise 
To take them both away. 

He bargained with two ruffians strong, 
Which were of furious mood, 


That they should take these children 
young, 

And slay them in a wood. 

He told his wife, and all he had, 

He did the children send 
To be brought up in fair London, 

With one that was his friend. 

Away then went these pretty babes, 
Rejoicing at that tide, 

Rejoicing with a merry mind, 

They should on cock-horse ride; 

They prate and prattle pleasantly, 

As they rode on their way, 

To those that should the butchers be, 
And work their lives decay. 

So that the pretty speech they had, 

Made Murder’s heart relent; 

And they that undertook the deed 
Full soon they did repent. 

Yet one of them, more hard of heart, 
Did vow to do his charge, 

Because the wretch that hired him 
Had paid him very large. 

The other would not agree thereto, 

So here they fell at strife; 

With one another they did fight 
About the children’s life; 

And he that was of milder mood 
Did slay the other there, 

Within an unfrequented wood; 

While babes did quake for fear. 

He took the children by the hand, 

When tears stood in their eye, 

And bade them come and go with him, 
And look, they did not cry ; 





88 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


And two long miles he led them on, 
While they for food complain ; 

“Stay here/’ quoth he, “I bring you 
bread 

When I do come again.” 

These pretty babes, with hand in hand, 
Went wandering up and down, 

But never more they saw the man 
Approaching from the town. 

Their pretty lips with blackberries 
Were all besmeared and dyed, 

And when they saw the darksome night, 
They sat them down and cried. 

Thus wandered these two pretty babes, 
Till death did end their grief; 

In one another’s arms they died, 

■ As babes wanting relief. 

No burial this pretty pair 
Of any man receives, 

Till robin readbreast, painfully, 

Did cover them with leaves. 

And now the heavy wrath of God 
Upon their uncle fell: 

Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, 
His conscience felt an hell. 

His barns were fired, his goods consumed, 
His lands were barren made; 

His cattle died within the field, 

And nothing with him stayed. 

And in the voyage of Portugal, 

Two of his sons did die, 

And, to conclude, himself was brought 
To extreme misery. 

He pawned and mortgaged all his land, 
Ere seven years came about; 


And now, at length, this wicked act 
Did by this means come out: 

The fellow that did take in hand, 
These children for to kill, 

Was fora robber judged to die, 

As was God’s blessed will; 

Who did confess the very truth, 

The which is here expressed ; 
Their uncle died while he, for debt, 
In prison long did rest. 

You that executors be made, 

And overseers eke, 

Of children that are fatherless, 

And infants mild and meek; 

Take you example by this thing, 
And yield to each his right, 

Lest God with such-like misery, 
Your wicked minds requite. 


MY DA UGH TER AND THE 
DAISIES. 

GEORGE HOUGHTON. 

I gave my little girl back to the daisies; 

From them it was that she tcok her 
name, 

I gave my precious one back to the 
daisies; 

From where they caught their color she 
came. 

And now when I look in the face of a 
daisy, 

My little girl’s face I see, I see! 

My tears, down dropping with their’s 
commingle, 

And they give my precious one back 
to me. 






POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


S9 


THE EASTER LOA VES. 

MARGARET VANDEGRIFT. 

It was formerly a custom at Twickenham to 
throw penny loaves to the poor children, from 
the steeple, on Thursday of Easter week. 

All around the Twickenham steeple 
Was gathered a crowd of waiting people 
Watching the window, whence came out 
The lad who scattered the loaves about,— 

Mothers a few, and children many, 

For each of the loaves was worth a penny. 
Once in the year, you see, at least, 

The Twickenham poor were given a 
feast! 

Not much of a feast, perhaps you think, 
You who have plenty to eat and drink, 
But enough good bread was a feast to 
the people 

Who gathered so close about Twicken¬ 
ham steeple. 

Out stepped the lad, and the loaves fell 
fast, 

Till all were scattered, the very last, 
And each a home in an apron found, 
Almost before it had touched the ground. 

Merry laughter and -joyous shout, 

From the scrambling girls and boys rang 
out; 

But as the last loaf touched the earth, 

A sound of sobbing broke through the 
mirth. 

“ It’s little Polly ! ” a voice cried out, 

“ Whatever can she have been about ? 
She hasn’t a single loaf—instead 
She’s a thump from one aside of her 
head ! 


“ Here child, take mine—see, it’s brave 
and fat, 

I’m poor, but I’m not so poor as that! 

Your granny’s blind and not fit to do— 

Look here, if some of ’em aint grabbed 
two! 

“ You greedy things—hold your apron, 
child ; 

Now, then, there’ll some of this bread be 
spiled— 

O yes, there will, and you needn’t stare— 

If little Polly don’t get her share ! ” 

“ You needn’t call names,” cried the 
“ grabbers ” of two; 

“You talk as if we all of us knew ! 

How could we see that the child got 
none ? 

Here, Polly, we’re well content with 
one.” 

“ I don’t need mine ! ” “ Nor I! ” 

“Nor I!” 

Once more the loaves seemed to fairly 

And the blue check apron, long and 
wide, 

Was stuffed so full that it came untied. 

And little Polly, with laughter sweet, 

Faltered her thanks, and with flying feet 

Rushed back to granny, alone and blind, 

Who said, “ Ay, God and his children 
are kind.” 

You must admit that some pleasant peo¬ 
ple 

Lived in the shadow of Twickenham 
steeple. 







90 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



MKS. M. L. RAYNE. 

Ob, Mamma, what will Grandpa do? 

He’s gone away to Heaven, 

Without the silver spectacles 
That Uncle John had given; 

How can he read the papers there, 

Or find his hickory staff? 

He’ll put his coat on wrong side out, 
And make the people laugh. 

And when he takes the Bible down 


And wipes the dusty lid, 

He’ll never find his spectacles 
Within its cover hid ; 

There won’t be any little girl 
He likes as well as me, 

To run and hunt them up for him 
And put them on his knee. 

Oh dear! he’ll never find the place 
About “ the wicked flee,” 

And how the bears ate children up, 
(That used to frighten me ;) 

So, Mamma, if you’ll dress me up, 
Just like an angel bright, 

I’ll fix our ladder ’gainst the sky, 
And take them up to-night. 


A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD. 

KTT 7.ATt F.TK BARRETT BROWNING. 

They say that God lives very high: 

But if you look above the pines 
You cannot see our God; and why ? 
And if you dig down in the mines, 
You never see him in the gold, 
Though from him all that’s glory 
shines. 

God is so good he wears a fold 
Of heaven and earth across his face,— 
Like secrets kept for love untold. 

But still I feel that his embrace 

Slides down by thrills through all 
things made; 

Through sight and sound of every place. 
As if my tender mother laid 

On my shut lips her kisses’ pressure, 
Half waking me at night, and said, 
“Who kissed you through the dark, 
dear guesser ? ” 


GRANDPAPA'S SPECTACLES. 










1M1BBS&1 


“They say that God Lives Very High. ’ 

































POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


93 


THE MOTHERLESS TURKEYS. 

MARIAN DOUGLAS. 

The white turkey was dead ! The white 
turkey was dead! 

How the news through the barn-yard 
went flying! 

Of a mother bereft, four small turkeys 
were left, 

And their case for assistance was cry¬ 
ing. 

E’en the peacock respectfully folded his 
tail, 

As a suitable symbol of sorrow, 

And his plainer wife said, “Now the old 
bird is dead, 

Who will tend her poor chicks on the 
morrow ?” 

“And when evening around them comes 
dreary and chill, 

Who above them will watchfully 
hover ?” 

“Two each night I will tuck ’neath my 
wings,” said the duck, 

“Though I’ve eight of my own I must 
cover!” 

“I have so much to do ! for the bugs and 
the worms, 

In the garden, ’tis tiresome pickin’; 

I’ve nothing to spare—for my own I 
must care,”" 

Said the hen with one chicken. 

“How I wish,” said the goose, “I could 
be of some use, 

For my heart is with love over-brim¬ 
ming; 

The next morning that’s fine, they shall 
go with my nine 


Little yellow-backed goslings, out 
swimming!” 

“I will do what I can,” the old dorking 
put in, 

“And for help they may call upon me, 
too, 

Though I’ve ten of my own that are only 
half grown, 

And a great deal of trouble to see to; 

But these poor little things, they are all 
head and wings, 

And their bones through their feathers 
are stickin’!” 

“Very hard it may be, but, Oh, don’t 
come to me!” 

Said the hen with one chicken. 

“Half my care I suppose there is nobody 
knows, 

I’m the most overburdened of mothers! 

They must learn, little elves, to scratch 
for themselves, 

And not seek to depend upon others.”' 

She went by with a cluck, and the goose 
to the duck 

Exclaimed with surprise, “Well, I 
never!” 

Said the duck, “I declare, those who 
have the least care, 

You will find are complaining forever! 

And when all things appear to look 
threatening and drear, 

And when troubles your pathway are 
thick in, 

For some aid in your woe, beware how 
you go 

To a hen with one chicken.” 




94 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


THE ILL-NATURED BRIER . 

MRS. ANNA BACHE. 

Little Miss Brier came out of the ground, 

She put out her thorns, and scratched 
ev’ry thing ’round. 

“I’ll just try,” said she, 

“How bad I can be; 

At pricking and scratching, there are 
few can match me.” 

Little Miss Brier was handsome and 
bright, 

Her leaves were dark green, and her 
flowers pure white; 

But all who came nigh her, 
Were so worried by her, 

They’d go out of their way to keep clear 
of the Brier. 

Little Miss Brier was looking one day, 

At her neighbor, the Yiolet, over the 
way; 

“I wonder,” said she, 

“That no one pets me, 

While all seem so glad little Yiolet to 
see.” 

A sober old Linnet, who sat on a tree, 

Heard the speech of the Brier, and thus 
answered he: 

“ ’Tis not that she’s fair, 

For you may compare, 

In beauty with even Miss Yiolet there;” 

“But Yiolet is always so pleasant and 
kind; 

So gentle in manner, so humble in mind, 
E’en the worms at her feet 
She would never ill-treat, 


And to Bird, Bee, and Butterfly always 
is sweet.” 

Then the gardener’s wife the pathway 
came down, 

And the mischievous Brier caught hold 
of her gown; 

“O, dear, what a tear! 

My gown’s spoiled, I declare! 

That troublesome Brier!—it has no bus¬ 
iness there; 

Here, John, grub it up; throw it into 
the fire,” 

And that was the end of the ill-natured 
Brier. 


THE TIME OF THE GOLDEN ROD. 

ROBERT J. BURDETTE. 

Whispering winds kiss the hills of Sep¬ 
tember ; 

Thistledown phantoms drift over the 
lawn ; 

Red glows the ivy, like ghost-lighted 
ember, 

Shrouded in mists breaks the *low com¬ 
ing dawn ; 

Sunlighted vistas the woodland discloses, 

Sleeping in shadow the still lake reposes, 

Gone is the summer, its sweets and its 
roses— 

Harvest is past and the summer is gone. 

Plaintively sighing, the brown leaves are 
falling, 

Sadly the wood dove mourns all the 
day long; 

In the dim starlight the katydids calling; 

Hushed into slumber the brook and its 
song. 







POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD 


95 



“ Plaintively Sighing the Brown Leaves are Falling. 





































90 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


She remembered her of stories her 
mother used to tell, 

Ane of the cradle songs she sang, when 
summer’s twilight fell, 

Of good men and of angels, and of the 
Holy Child, 

Who was cradled in a manger when 
winter was most wild ; 

Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, 
and desolate and lone, 

And she thought the song had told her 
he was ever with his own, 

And all the poor and hungry and for¬ 
saken ones were his,— 

How good of him to look on me in such 
a place as this! 

Colder it grows and colder, hut she 
does not feel it now, 

For the pressure on her bosom, and the 
weight upon her brow ; 

But she struck one little match on the 
wall so cold and bare, 

That she might look around her, and 
see if he was there. 

The single match was kindled; and, by 
the light it threw, 

It seemed to little Gretchen that the 
wall was rent in two; 

And she could see the room within, the 
room all warm and light, 

With the fire-glow red and blazing, and 
the tapers burning bright. 

And kindred there were gathered 
round the table richly spread, 
With heaps of goodly viands, red wines, 
and pleasant bread— 


She could smell the fragrant odor; she 
could hear them talk and play, 

Then all was darkness once again—the 
match had burned away— 

She struck another hastily, and now she 
seemed to see, 

Within the same warm chamber a glor¬ 
ious Christmas-tree. 

The branches all were laden down with 
things that children prize; 

Bright gifts for boy and maiden they 
showed before her eyes. 

And she almost seemed to touch them, 
and to join the welcome shout; 

Then darkness fell around her, for the 
little match was out. 

Another, yet another, she has tried— 
they will not light; 

Then all her little store she took, and 
struck with all her might. 

And the whole place around her was 
lighted with the glare ; 

And lo! there hung a little Child be¬ 
fore her in the air ! 

There were blood-drops on his forehead, 
a spear wound in his side, 

And cruel nail-prints in his feet, and 
in his hands spread wide, 

And he looked upon her gently, and 
she felt that he had known 

Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow—aye, 
equal to her own. 

And he pointed to the laden board 
and to the Christmas tree, 

Then up to the cold sky, and said, “ Will 
Gretchen come with me ? ” 






POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


97 


Gone are the summers and ended their 
weeping, 

Gone are the gleaners and finished the 
reaping, 

Blossom and bee with the song-bird are 
sleeping— 

Harvest is ended and summer is gone. 


THE ENCHANTRESS. 

A Springtime Lyric for Mabel. 

THOMAS BAXLEY ALDRICH. 

It is only in legend and fable 

The fairies are with us, you know ; 

For the fairies are fled, little Mabel, 

Ay, ages and ages ago. 

And yet I have met with a fairy— 

You needn’t go shaking your curls— 

A genuine spirit and airy, 

Like her who talked nothing but 
pearls! 

You may laugh if you like, little Mabel; 
I know you’re exceedingly wise ; 

But I have seen her as plain as I’m able 
To see unbelief in your eyes. 

A marvelous creature ! I really 
Can’t say she is gifted with wings, 

Or resides in a tulip ; but, clearly, 

She’s queen of all beautiful things. 

Whenever she comes from her castle, 
The snow fades away like a dream, 

And the pine-cone’s icicle tassel 
Melts, and drops into the stream! 

The dingy gray moss on the boulder 
Takes color like burnished steel; 

The brook puts its silvery shoulder 
Again to the old mill-wheel! 


The robin and wren fly to meet her; 

The honey-bee hums with delight; 
The morning breaks brighter and sweeter. 
More tenderly falls the night! 

By roadsides, in pastures and meadows, 
The buttercups growing bold, 

For her sake light up the shadows 
With disks of tremulous gold. 

Even the withered bough blossoms 
Grateful for sunlight and rain— 

Even the hearts in our bosoms 
Are leaping to greet her again l 

What fairy in all your romances 
Is such an enchantress as she, 

Who blushes in roses and pansies, 

And sings in the birds on the tree ? 


A COMMONPLACE LIFE. 

SUSAN COOLIDGE. 

A commonplace life, we say, and we sigh, 

But why should we sigh as we say ? 

The commonplace sun in the common¬ 
place sky, 

Makes up the commonplace day. 

The moon and the stars are common¬ 
place things; 

The flower that blooms, and the bird 
that sings; 

But sad were the world, and dark our 
lot, 

If the flowers failed and the sun shone 
not, 

And God, who sees each separate soul. 

Out of commonplace lives makes His 
beautiful whole. 






98 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



THE CHICKEN'S MISTAKE. 

FHEBE CARY. 

A little downy chicken one day 
Asked leave to go on the water; 
Where she saw a duck with her brood at 
play 

Swimming and splashing about her. 

Indeed, she began to peep and cry, 

When her mother wouldn’t let her : 

“ If the ducks can swim there, why 
can’t I, 

Are they any bigger or better ? ” 

Then the old hen answered ; “ Listen 
to me, 

And hush your foolish talking ; 

Just look at your feet, and you will see 
They were only made for walking.” 

But chicky wistfully eyed the brook, . 
And didn’t half believe her ; 


For she seemed to say, by a knowing 
look, 

“Such stories couldn’t deceive her.” 

And as her mother was scratching the 
ground, 

She muttered lower and lower, 

“ I know I can go there and not be 
drowned, 

And so I think I’ll show her.” 

Then she made a plunge, where the 
stream was deep, 

And saw too late her blunder; 

For she hadn’t hardly time to peep 

Till her foolish head went under. 

And now I hope her fate will show 

The child, my story reading, 

That those who are older sometimes 
know 

What you will do well in heeding. 

That each content in his place should 
dwell, 

And envy not his brother; 

And any part that is acted well ; 

Is just as good as another. 

For we all have our proper sphere 
below, 

And this is a truth worth knowing; 

Y ou will come to grief if you try 
to go 

Where you never were made for 
going! 




















POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


99 


WHAT THE WINDS BRING. 

EDMDSD CLARENCE STEADMAN. 

Which is the wind that brings the cold ? 
The north-wind, Freddy, and all the 
snow; 

And the sheep will scamper into the fold 
When the north begins to blow. 

Which is the wind that brings the heat ? 
The south-wind, Katy ; and corn will 
grow, 

And peaches redden for you to eat, 
When the south begins to blow. 

Which is the wind that brings the rain ? 
The east-wind, Arty; and farmers 
know 

That cows come shivering up the lane 
When the east begins to blow. 

Which is the wind that brings the flow¬ 
ers? 

The west-wind, Bessie ; and soft and 
low 

The birdie’s sing in the summer hours 
When the west begins to blow. 


THE KING'S DAUGHTERS. 

BY MARGARET VANDEGRIFT. 

The King’s three little daughters, ’neath 
the palace windows straying, 

Had fallen into earnest talk that put an 
end to playing, 

And the weary King smiled once again 
to hear what they were saying. 

*'• It is I who love our father best! ” the 
eldest daughter said; 


I am the oldest Princess! ” and her 
pretty face grew red ; 

“ What is there none can do without ? I 
love him more than bread! ” 

Then said the second Princess, with her 
bright blue eyes aflame, 

“ Than bread ? A common thing like 
bread ! Thou hast not any shame! 

Glad am I it is I, not thou, called by our 
mother’s name. 

“ I love him with a better love than one 
so tame as thine— 

More than—oh, what then shall I say 
that is both bright and fine, 

And is not common ? Yes, I know—I 
love him more than wine! ” 

Then the little youngest daughter, whose 
speech would sometimes halt 

For her dreamy way of thinking, said, 
“ You are both in fault, 

’Tis I who love our father best—I love 
him more than salt.” 

Shrill little shrieks of laughter greeted 
her latest word, 

As the two joined hands, exclaiming, 
“ But this is most absurd! ” 

And the King, no longer smiling, was 
grieved that he had heard. 

For the little youngest daughter, with 
her eyes of steadfast gray, 

Could always move his tenderness, and 
charm his cares away. 

“ She grows more like her mother dead,” 
he whispered, “ day by day. 

“ But she is very little, and I will find no 
fault 





100 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


That, while her sisters strive to see who 
most shall me exalt, 

She holds me nothing dearer than a com¬ 
mon thing like salt.” 

The portly cook was standing in the 
courtyard by the spring; 

He winked and nodded to himself, 
“ That little quiet thing 

Knows more than both the others, as I 
will show the King.” 

That afternoon at dinner there was noth¬ 
ing fit to eat; 

The King turned, frowning angrily from 
soup and fish and meat, 

And he found a cloying sweetness in the 
dishes that were sweet. 

“ And yet,” he muttered, musing, I can 
not find the fault; 

Not a thing has tasted like itself but this 
honest cup of malt.” 

Said the youngest Princess shyly, “ Dear 
father, they want salt.” 

A sudden look of tenderness shown in 
the King’s dark face, 

As he set his little daughter in the dead 
Queen’s vacant place; 

And he thought, “ She has her mother’s 
heart — aye, and her mother’s 
grace.” 

Great love through smallest channels 
will find its surest way; 

It waits not state occasions which may 
not come, or may ; 

It comforts and it blesses, hour by hour 
and day by day. 


THE FIVE LOA VES. 

MARGARET J PRE8TON. 

What if the little Jewish lad; 

That summer day, had failed to go 
Down to the lake, because he had 
So small a store of loaves to show ? 

“The press is great,” he might have said, 
“For food the thronging people call; 

I only have five loaves of bread, 

And what were they among them 
all?” 

And back the mother’s word might come, 
Her coaxing hand upon his hair; 

“Yet go ; for they may comfort some 
Among the hungry children there.” 

So to the lake-side forth he went, 
Bearing the scant supply he had; 

And Jesus, with an eye intent 

Through all the crowds, beheld the 
lad, 

And saw the loaves, and blessed them. 
Then 

Beneath his hand the marvel grew; 
He brake and blessed, and brake again ; 
The loaves were neither small nor few! 

For, as we know, it came to pass 

That hungry thousands there were fed, 
While sitting on the fresh, green grass, 
From that one basketful of bread. 

If from his home the lad that day 

His five small loaves had failed to 
take, 

Would Christ have wrought—can any 
say?— 

That miracle beside the lake. 





POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


101 




THE LITTLE BEE. 

BY A. M, L. 

A little bee stood by the hive 
one morn, 

“ $ow where shall I look for 
honey \ ” she said, 

“In the long phlox tube, the col¬ 
umbine’s bell, 

Or the cup of the rose so deep 
and red? ” 


Before the 
finished her thought, 

The hive was closed and she 
was left out, 

Because that day no honey 
she’d brought. 

“ If you’d but done some¬ 
thing” said an old bee, 
“Instead of standing and 
dreaming all day, 

But planning great things that 
ne’er come to deeds, 

Is the poorest sort of a 
iness way.” 


But the sun went down and the 
day was spent 

little bee fin- 


, ^ 

* 2 ^^ 

A ** ^ 

- 


“In the Long Phlox Tube.” 


And the little bee through the long dark night, 
Chilled by the wind and wet by the dew, 
Besolved that henceforth she’d plan with dispatch, 
And, hardest of all, she’d put her plans through. 












102 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


SHARING. 

LUCY LARCOM. 

I said it in the mountain path, 

I say it on the mountain stairs; 

The best things any mortal hath 

Are those which every mortal shares. 

The grass is softer to my tread 

For rest it yields unnumbered feet; 

Sweeter to me the wild rose red 

Because it makes the whole world sweet. 

THE LITTLE MUD SPARROWS. 

A JEWISH LEGEND. 

ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. 

I like that old sweet legend, 

Not found in Holy Writ, 

And wish that John or Matthew 
Had made Bible out of it. 

But though it is not Gospel, 

There is no law to hold 
The heart from growing better, 

That hears the story told:— 

How the little Jewish children, 

Upon a Summer day, 

Went down across the meadows, 

With the Child Christ to play. 

And in the gold-green valley, 

Where low the reed-grass lay, 

They made them mock-mud-sparrows, 
Out of the meadow clay. 

So, when these all were fashioned, 
And ranged in flocks about, 

“Now,” said the little Jesus, 

“We’ll let the birds fly out.” 


Then all the happy children, 

Did call, and coax, and cry, 

Each to his own mud-sparrow: 

“Fly, as I bid you—fly!” 

But earthen were the sparrows, 

And earth they did remain, 

Though loud the Jewish children 
Cried out and cried again. 

Except the one bird only, 

The little Lord Christ made, 

The earth that owned Him master, 
His earth heard and obeyed. 

Softly he leaned and whispered: 

“Fly up to Heaven—fly !” 

And swift his little sparrow, 

Went soaring to the sky. 

And silent all the children 
Stood awe-struck looking on, 

Till deep into the heavens 
The bird of earth had gone. 

I like to think for playmate, 

We have the Lord Christ still, 

And that still above our weakness, 

He works his mighty will. 

That all our little playthings, 

Of earthen hopes and joys, 

Shall be by his commandment, 
Changed into heavenly toys. 

Our souls are like the sparrows, 
Imprisoned in the clay,— 

Bless Him who came to give them 
wings, 

Upon a Christmas day ! 








POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


103 



IN THE BARN. 


Oh, Jack, are you up in the hay-loft! 

I’m coming up there too. 

I’m tired of being a lady, 

I’d rather have fun with you. 
There’s company in the parlor, 

And mamma whispered to me, 

“ Now do be a lady, pussy, 

And see how good you can be.’' 


But, Jack, it was really dreadful! 

And I couldn’t sit still you know, 

And most likely the company wondered 

To see me fidgeting so. 

But I heard you laughing and 
shouting, 

And I knew you were having 
fun, 

And I looked at the clock and 
wondered 

How soon her call would be 
done. 


Hunting For Eggs. 

To sit on a beam is fun ; 

And we don’t care if we’er sunburned, 
We aren’t afraid of the sun. 

Just fancy mamma and sister 
Rolling about in the hay ! 

It makes me laugh—because surely 
Their “ trains ” would be in the way. 


But while they were busy talk¬ 
ing. 

And didn’t remember me, 

I just slipped out as softly, 

And here I am you see, 

O Jack! it’s awful jolly 
Not to be grown-up folks; 
They never have fun in the 
hay-loft, 

Laughing and telling jokes. 


They can’t go hunting for hens’ eggs, 
Or swing on the old barn door, 

Or climb this steep old ladder, 

And jump like us on the floor, 

To sit in a chair is horrid, 










104 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


I heard papa call me a “ Tom-boy;” 

I’d rather be that, I declare, 

Than to sit for' another hour 
So still in the parlor chair. 

Just think of the time I wasted, 

When I might have been here with 
you! 

And it may be another half-hour 
Before her visit is through. 

I am sorry for mamma and sister, 

Long dresses long manners and all! 
And, Jack, I’ll be sorrier still, dear, 
When you and Pussie ” grow tall. 


THE BIRD THA T SINGS. 

SIDNEY DAYRE. 

You dear little birdie, who taught 
you to sing 

Among the green blossoms and 
branches of spring ? 

I wish you would tell me; for then 
don’t you see, 

I’d ask the same person to try to 
teach me. 

I wonder, whenever I hear you, if you 

Have to sit in a tree for an hour or two 

And practice your dear little twitter and 
trill, 

When it is so dreadfully hard to keep 
still? 

When you want to play in the sunshine 
all day, 

Does somebody hold up a finger and 
say, 


As solemnly: “ Now, little blue-bird, stay 
so, 

And carefully practice your do, ra, me, 
do ?” 

Do you have to learn about octaves and 
thirds, 

And chords and arpeggios and other 
hard words ? 

And those terrible scales! Why, of all 
that I do, 


I think them the hardest to practice. 

Do you? 

Well, however you do, I am sure of one 
thing, 

That I have to practice before I can 
sing, 

And with all I may learn, and the best I 
can do, 

I never shall sing, little birdie, like 
you. 







POEMS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


105 



THE CHILDREN'S CHURCH. 

TRANSLATED PROM THE GERMAN OP PAUL 
GEROT. 

The bells of the church are ringing, 
Papa and mamma are both gone; 

And three little children stand singing 


Together this still Sunday morn. 

While the bells toll away in the steeple, 
Though too small to sit still in a pew, 
These busy, religious small people 
Determined to have their church too. 











ROYAT. ECHOES. 


100 


So as free as the birds or the breezes, 

By which their fair ringlets are fanned, 
Each rogue sings away as he pleases, 
With book upside-down in his hand. 

Their hymn has no sense in its letter, 
Their music no rhythm nor tune; 

Our worship perhaps may be better, 

But their’s reaches God quite as soon. 

Their angels stand close to the Father, 
His Heaven is made bright by these 
flowers ; 

And the dear God above us would rather 
Hear praise from their lips than from 
ours. 

Sing on, for the proudest orations, 

The liturgies sacred and long, 

The anthems and worship of nations 
Are poor, to your inocent song. 

Sing on ; our devotion is colder, 

Though wdsely our prayers may be 
planned, 

For often we, too, who are older, 

Hold our book the wrong way in our 
hand. 

Sing on ; our harmonic inventions 
We study with labor and pain, 

Yet often our angry contentions 
Take the harmony out of our strain. 

Sing on ; all our struggle and battle, 

Our cry, when most deep and sincere— 
What are they ? a child’s simple prattle, 
A breath on the Infinite ear. 


TO LAURA—Two Years of Age. 

N. P. WILLIS. 

Bright be the skies that cover thee, 
Child of the sunny brow— 

Bright as the dream flung over thee, 

By all that meets thee now. 

Thy heart is beating joyously, 

Thy voice is like a bird’s, 

And sweetly breaks the melody 
Of thy imperfect words. 

I know no fount that gushes out 
As gladly as thy tiny shout. 

I would that thou mightst ever be 
As beautiful as now,— 

That time might ever leave as free 
Thy yet unwritten brow : 

I would life were “ all poetry,” 

To gentle measure set, 

That nought but chastened melody 
Might strain thy eye of jet— 

FTor one discordant note be spoken, 

Till God the cunning harp hath broken. 
***** * 

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child? 

Keep thee as thou art now ? 

Bring thee a spirit undefiled 
At God’s pure throne to bow ? 

The world is but a broken reed, 

And life grows early dim. 

Who shall be near thee in thy need, 

To lead thee up to him ? 

He who Himself was “ undefiled,” 

With Him we trust thee, beautiful child! 

“ Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
In thy heart the dew of youth. 

On thy lips the smile of truth.” 











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F/\RT THREE. 


oems for Qirifyood 


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Poeijis for Girlhood. 

C ^ W -> o 


Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; 

Do noble things, not dream them all day long; 
And so make life, death, and that vast forever 
One grand, sweet song. 

—Charles Kingsley. 


MAIDENHO OD. 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, 

In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses wreathed in one, 

As the braided streamlets run ! 

Standing, with reluctant feet, 

Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet! 

Gazing, with a timid glance, 

On the brooklet’s swift advance 
On the river’s broad expanse ! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem, 

As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 

When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 
****** 

Oh, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands—life hath snares! 
Gare and age come unawares ! 


Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon, 

May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough where slumber’d 
Birds and blossoms many numbered ; 
Age that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
When the young heart overflows, 

To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass can not withstand 
One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong and ruth, 

In thy heart the dew of youth, 

On thy lips the smile of truth. 

Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal, 

Even as sleep our eyes doth seal! ' 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 

For a smile of God thou art. 


in 









112 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



“Oh! Never a little Quakeress a guiltier conscience bore!” 


THE LITTLE QUAKER SINNER. 

LUCY L. MONTGOMERY. 

A little Quaker maiden, with dimpled 
cheek and chin, 

Before an ancient mirror stood, and 
viewed her form within; 

She wore a gown of sober gray, a cap 
demure and prim, 

With one simple fold and hem, yet 
dainty, neat and trim. 

Her bonnet, too, was gray and stiff; its 


only line of grace 

Was in the lace, so soft and white, shirred 
round her rosy face. 

Quoth she: “Oh, how I hate this hat! I 
hate this gown and cape! 

I do wish all my* clothes were not of 
such outlandish shape! 

The children passing by to school have 
ribbons on their hair; 

The little girl next door wears blue; oh, 
dear, if I could dare. 



























































































POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


113 


I know what I should like to do!” (The 
words were whispered low, 

Lest such tremendous heresy should 
reach her aunts below.) 

Calmly reading in the parlor sat the good 
aunts. Faith and Peace, 

Little dreaming how rebellious throbbed 
the heart of their young niece. 

All their prudent humble teachings, 
willfully she cast aside, 

And, her mind now fully conquered by 
vanity and pride, 

She, with trembling heart and fingers on 
a hassock sat her down, 

And this little Quaker sinner sewed a 
tuck into her gown. 

“Little Patience art thou ready? Filth 
day meeting time has come. 

Mercy Jones and Goodman Elder with 
his wife have left their home.” 

’Twas Aunt Faith’s sweet voice that 
called her, and the naughty little 
maid— 

Gliding down the dark old stairway— 
hoped their notice to evade, 

Keeping shyly in their shadow, as they 
went out at the door,— 

Ah, never little Quakeress a guiltier 
conscience; bore! 

Dear Aunt Faith walked looking up¬ 
ward; all her thoughts were pure 
and holy; 

And Aunt Peace walked gazing down¬ 
ward, with a humble mind and 
lowly. 

But “tuck—tuck!” chirped the sparrows 
at the little maiden’s side; 


And, in passing Farmer Watson’s, where 
the barn-door opened wide, 

Every sound that issued from it, every 
grunt and every cluck, 

Seemed to her affrighted fancy, like “a 
tuck!” “a tuck!” “a tuck!” 

In meeting Goodman Elder spoke of 
pride and vanity; 

While all the Friends seemed looking 
round that dreadful tuck to see. 
How it swelled in its proportions, till 
it seemed to fill the air, 

And the heart of little Patience grew 
heavier with her care. 

Oh, the glad relief to her, when, prayer 
and exhortations ended, 

Behind her two good aunties her home¬ 
ward way she wended! 

The pomp's and vanities of life she’d 
seized with eager arms, 

And deeply she had tasted of the 
world’s alluring charms— 

Yea, to the dregs had drained them, 
and only this to find: 

Al l was vanity of spirit and vexation 
of the mind. 

So, repentant, saddened, humbled, on 
her hassock she sat down, 

And this little Quaker sinner ripped 
the tuck out of her gown! 

GOD'S PLANS. 

God’s plans, like lilies pure and white, 
unfold ; 

We must not tear the close-shut leaves 
apart,— 

Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. 










APPLE BLOSSOMS. 

EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER. 

Up through the woodpaths with bird 
songs about her, 

May has come softly : the beautiful 
child ! 

Skies that were sullen and joyless 
without her, 

Broke into sunshine above her and 
smiled. 

Green on the uplands the wheatfields 
are springing, 

Cowslips are shining and daisies are 
white: 

Thro’ the still meadows the waters 
are singing, 

Brimming with melody, flashing with light. 


Blooming with clover the orchards are growing, 
Flecked by the shadows that tremble and glide, 
Round their gray trunks, when the west wind 
is blowing, 

Sways the young grass in a billowy tide. 


114 




POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


115 


Strong as the arms of a giant, yet tender, 

See what a treasure they lift to the sky! 

Take your red roses, aflame with their 
splendor, 

We love the apple trees, robin and I. 

Hark, how the oriole, flashing and glow¬ 
ing, 

Trills his clear whistle, so mellow and 
wild; 

Where, o’er the tops, with a lavish 
bestowing, 

Drift upon drift the sweet blossoms are 
piled. 

Where is the lip that has worthily sung 
them ? 

Tinted like sea-shell or whiter than snow; 

Bees, all the day, as they linger among 
them, 

Drowsy with nectar, are murmuring low. 

Pillowed beneath them I dream, as I 
listen, 

How the long summer above them shall 
shine; 

Till on the boughs the ripe fruitage shall 
glisten 

Tawny and golden, or redder than wine. 

In the bright days of the mellow Sep¬ 
tember, 

How we shall shout as we gather them in, 

Hoarding their wealth for the chilly 
December, 

Heaping them high in the cellar and bin. 

Then when the snow in the moonlight 
is gleaming, 


Up from the darkness the apples we’ll 
bring, 

Praising their sweets where the fine 
light is beaming; 

Globes of rich nectar a poet might sing. 

Tales of the Yikings our lips will be 
telling, 

Yet, when the Sagas are done, we shall 
say : 

“ Here’s to the land where the summer 
is dwelling, 

Here’s to the apple tree, monarch of 
May!” 


ALICE FELL. 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

The post-boy drove with fierce career, 
For threatening clouds the moon had 
drowned, 

When suddenly I seemed to hear 
A moan, a lamentable sound. 

As if the wind blew many ways, 

I heard the sound, and more and more ; 
It seemed to follow with the chaise, 

And still I heard it as before. 

At length I to the boy called out; 

He stopped his horses at the word; 

But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, 
Uor aught else like it, could be heard. 

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 
The horses scampered through the rain, 
And soon I beard upon the blast 
The voice, and bade them halt again. 





116 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Said I, alighting on the ground, 

“ What can it be, this hideous moan ? ” 
And there a little girl I found, 

Sitting behind the chaise alone. 

“ My cloak ! ”—no other word she spoke, 
But loud and bitterly she wept 
As if her little heart would burst; 

And down from otf her seat she leaped. 

“ What ails you, child ? ” She sobbed, 
“ Look here ! ” 

I saw it in the wheel entangled. 

A weather-beaten rag, as e’er 

From any garden scarescrow dangled. 

’Twas twisted between nave and spoke ; 
Her help she lent, and with good heed, 
Together we released the cloak— 

A miserable rag indeed ! 

“ And whither are you going child, 
To-night, along these lonesome ways ? ” 
“ To Durham,” answered she, half-wild, 
“ Then come with me into the chaise.” 

She sat like one past all relief; 

Sob after sob she forth did send 
In wretchedness, as if her grief 
Could never, never have an end. 

“ My child, in Durham do you dwell ? ” 
She checked herself in her distress, 

And said, “ My name is Alice Fell; 

I’m fatherless and motherless.” 

“ And I to Durham, sir, belong!” 

Again as if the thought would choke 
Her very heart, her grief grew strong, 
And all was for her tattered cloak ! 


The chaise drove on ; our journey’s end 
Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, 

As if she had lost her only friend 
She wept, nor would be pacified. 

Up to the tavern door we post; 

Of Alice and her grief I told, 

And I gave money to the host, 

To, buy a new cloak for the old. 

•*' And let it be of duffel gray 
As warm a cloak as man can sell!” 
Proud creature was she the next day, 
The little orphan Alice Fell. 


THE ORPHAN MAID. 

SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

November’s hail clouds drift away, 
November’s sunbeam wan 
Looks coldly on the castle gray, 

When forth comes Lady Anne. 

The Orphan by the oak was set, 

Her arms, her feet, were bare ; 

The haildrops had not melted yet, 

Amid her raven hair. 

“ And dame,” she said, “ by all the ties 
That child and mother know, 

Aid one who never knew the joys,— 
Relieve an orphan’s woe.” 

The Lady said, “ An orphan’s state 
Is hard and sad to bear; 

Yet worse the widowed mother’s fate, 
Who mourns both lord and heir. 

“ Twelve times the rolling year has sped, 
Since, while from vengeance wild 
Of fierce Strathallen’s chief I fled, 
Forth’s eddies whelmed my child. 






















“Relieve ax Orphan’s Woe.” 




























































118 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


“ Twelve times the year its course has 
borne.” 

The wandering maid replied ; 

“ Since fishers on St. Bridget’s morn, 
Drew nets on Campsie side. 

“ St. Bridget sent no scaly spoil; 

An infant, well nigh dead, 

They saved, and reared in want and toil, 
To beg from you her bread.” 

That orphan maid the lady kissed,— 

“ My husband’s looks you bear ; 

St. Bridget and her morn he blessed ! 
You are his widow’s heir.” 

They’ve robed that maid, so poor and 
pale, 

In silks and sandals rare, 

And pearls for drops of frozen hail, 

Are glistening in her hair. 


THE LITTLE MA TCH GIRL. 

FROM THE DANISH OP HANS CHRISTIAN 
ANDERSEN. 

Little Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders 
up and down the street, 

The snow is on her yellow hair, the 
frost is on her feet. 

The rows of long dark houses without 
look cold and damp, 

By the struggling of the moonbeam, by 
the flicker of the lamp. 

The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind 
is from the north, 

But no one cares for Gretchen, and no 
one looketh forth. 


Within those dark, damp houses are 
merry faces bright, 

And happy hearts are watching out the 
old year’s latest night. 

With the little box of matches she 
could not sell all day, 

And the thin, tattered mantle the wind 
blows every way ; 

She clingeth to the railing, she shivers 
in the gloom,— 

There are parents sitting snugly by the 
firelight in the room, 

And the children with grave faces are 
whispering to one another 
Of presents for the New Year, for father 
or for mother, 

But no one talks to Gretchen, and no 
one hears her speak, 

No breath of little whisperers comes 
warmly to her cheek. 

Her home is cold and desolate, no 
smile, no food, no fire, 

But children clamorous for bread, and 
an impatient sire, 

So she sits down in an angle where two 
great houses meet, 

And she curled up beneath her for 
warmth her little feet, 

And she looketh on the cold wall, and 
on the colder sky, 

And wonders if the little stars are bright 
fires upon high; 

She hears the clock strike slowly, up 
high in a church-tower, 

With such a sad and solemn tone, tell¬ 
ing the midnight hour. 














“She Shivers in the Gloom.” 


119 



























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































120 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


And she thought, as she sat lonely and 
listened to the chime, 

Of wondrous things that she had loved 
to hear in olden time. 

She remembered her of stories her 
mother used to tell, 

A nd of the cradle-songs she sang, when 
summer’s twilight fell, 

Of good men and of angels, and of the 
Holy Child, 

Who was cradled in a manger when 
winter was most wild; 

Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, 
and desolate and lone, 

And she thought the song had told her 
He was ever with His own, 

And all the poor and hungry and for¬ 
saken ones were His,— 

“How good of Him to look on me in such 
a place as this.” 

Colder it grows and colder, but she 
does not feel it now, 

For the pressure on her bosom, and the 
weight upon her brow; 

But she struck one little match on the 
wall so cold and bare, 

That she might look around her, and 
see if He was there. 

The single match was kindled; and, by 
the light it threw, 

It seemed to little Gretchen that the 
wall was rent in tw r o; 

And she could see the room within, the 
room all warm and light, 

With the fire-glow red and blazing, 
and the tapers burning bright. 
And kindred there were gathered round 
the table richly spread, 


With heaps of goodly viands, red wines, 
and pleasant bread— 

She could smell the fragrant odor; she 
could hear them talk and play, 

Then all was darkness once again—the 
match had burned away— 

She struck another hastily, and now she 
seemed to see, 

Within the same warm chamber a glor¬ 
ious Christmas-tree. 

The branches all were laden down with 
things that children prize; 

Bright gifts for boy and maiden they 
showed before her eyes. 

And she almost seemed to touch them, 
and to join the welcome shout; 

Then darkness fell around her, for the 
little match was out. 

Another, yet another, she has tried— 
they will not light; 

Then all her little store she took, and 
struck with all her might. 

And the whole place around her was 
lighted with the glare; 

And lo! there hung a little Child before 
her in the air! 

There were blood-drops on His forehead, 
a spear wound in His side, 

And cruel nail-prints in His feet, and in 
His hands spread wide; 

And He looked upon her gently, and 
she felt that He had known 

Pain, hunger, cold and sorrow—aye, 
equal to her own. 

And He pointed to the laden board 
and to the Christmas-tree, 

Then up to the cold sky, and said, “Will 
Gretchen come with me ?” 




POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


121 


The poor child felt her pulses fail, she 
felt her eyeballs swim, 

And a ringing sound was in her ears, 
like her dead mother’s hymn, 

And she folded both her thin, white 
hands and turned from that 
bright board, 

And from the golden gifts, and said, 
“With Thee, with Thee, O Lord!” 

The chilly winter morning breaks up in 
the dull skies, 

On the city wrapped in vapor, on the 
spot where Gretchen lies, 

In her scant and tattered garments, with 
her back against the wall, 

She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers 
to no call. 

They lifted her up fearfully, and shud¬ 
dered as they said, 

“It was a bitter, bitter night, the child 
is frozen dead!” 

The angels sang their greeting for one 
more redeemed from sin; 

Men said, “It was a bitter night; would 
no one let her in?” 

And they shivered as they spoke of her, 
and sighed—they could not see 

How much of happiness there was after 
that misery. 


£)UEEN MAB, THE FAIRY. 

WM. SHAKESPEARE. 

O, then, I see Queen Mab has been 
with you, 

And she comes 

In shape no bigger than an agate stone 
On the forefinger of an alderman, 


Drawn with a team of little atomies, 

Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep; 

Her wagon-spokes made of long spinner’s 
legs, 

The cover of the wings of grass-hoppers; 

Her traces of the smallest spider’s web; 

Her collars of the moonshine’s watery 
beams; 

Her whip of cricket’s bone; the lash ot 
film; 

Her waggoner a small gray-coated gnat, 



Not half so big as a round little worm 
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid; 
Her chariot is an empty hazel nut, 

Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, 
Time out o’mind the fairy’s coach- 
makers, 

And in this state she gallops night by 
night. 

















122 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



THE PET LAMB. 

WM. WORDSWORTH. 

The dew was falling fast, 
the stars began to blink; 

1 heard a voiceit said, 

“Drink pretty creature, 
drink;” 

And, looking o’er the hedge 
before me, I espied 

A snow - white mountain 
lamb, with a maiden at 
its side; 

No other sheep were near, 
the lamb was all alone, 

And by a slender cord was 
tethered to a stone ; 

With one knee on the grass did the 
little maiden kneel, 

While to the mountain lamb she gave 
its evening meal; 


’Twas little Barbary Lethewaite, a child 
of beauty rare; 

I watched them with delight; they were 
a lovely pair. 

And now with empty can the maiden 
turned away, 




























POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


123 


But ere ten yards were gone, her foot¬ 
steps did she stay. 

Toward the lamb she looked; and from 
that shady place 

I, unobserved, could see the workings of 
her face; 

If nature to her tongue could measured 
numbers bring, 

Thus thought I, to her lamb that little 
maid would sing; 

“ What ails thee, young one, what ? Why 
pull so at thy cord ? 

Is it not well with thee ? well both for 
bed and board ? 

Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as 
grass can be; 

Rest little young one, rest; what is’t 
that aileth thee ? 

What is it thou wouldst seek ? What’s 
wanting to thy heart ? 

Thy limbs, are they not strong? and 
beautiful thou art; 

This grass is tender grass ; these flowers 
they have no peers ; 

And that green corn all day is rustling 
in thy ears. 

If the sun is shining hot, do but stretch 
thy woolen chain ; 

This beach is standing by, its covert 
thou can’st gain; 

For rain and mountain storms, the like 
thou need’st not fear, 

The rain and storm are things which 
scarcely can come here. 


Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast 
forgot the day 

When my father found thee first in places 
far away; 

Many flocks were on the hills, but thou 
wert owned by none, 

And thy mother from thy side for ever¬ 
more was gone. 

He took thee in his arms, and in pity 
brought thee home; 

A blessed day for thee ! then whither 
wouldst thou roam ? 

A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam 
that did thee yean 

Upon the mountain tops, no kinder could 
have been. 

Thou knowest that twice a day I’ve 
brought thee in this can 

Fresh water from the brook, as clear as 
ever ran; 

And twice in the day, when the ground 
is wet with dew, 

I bring the draughts of milk, warm milk 
it is and new. 

It will not, will not rest! Poor crea¬ 
ture ! Can it be 

That ’tis thy mother’s heart which is 
working so in thee ? 

Things that I know not of, perhaps to 
thee are dear, 

And dreams of things which thou canst 
neither see nor hear. 

Alas! the mountain tops that look so 
green and fair; 

I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness 
that come there, 






124 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


The little brooks that seem all pastime 
and all play, 

When they are angry, roar like lions for 
their prey. 

Here thou need’st not dread the raven 
in the sky; 

He will not come to thee, our cottage is 
hard by; 

Why bleat so after me ? Why pull so 
at thy chain ? 

Sleep, and at break of day I will come 
to thee again. ” 


RED RIDING-HOOD. 

JOHN G. WHITTIER. 

On the wide lawn the snow lay deep, 
Ridged o’er with many a drifted heap; 
The wind that through the pine-trees 
sung, 

The naked elm-boughs, tossed and 
swung; 

While, through the window, frosty 
starred 

Against the sunset purple barred, 

We saw the somber crow flap by, 

The hawk’s gray fleck along the sky, 
The crested blue-jay flittering swept, 
The squirrel poising on the drift, 

Erect, alert, his broad gray tail 
Set to the north wind like a sail. 

It came to pass, our little lass, 

With flattened face against the glass, 
And eyes in which the tender dew 
Of pity shone, stood gazing through 
The narrow space her rosy lips 
Had melted from the frost’s eclipse; 

“ Oh, see,” she cried, “ The poor blue- 
jays ! 

What is it that the black crow says ? 


The squirrel lifts his little legs 
Because he has no hands, and begs ; 

He’s asking for my nuts I know; 

May I not feed them on the snow? ” 

Half lost within her boots, her head 
Warm-sheltered in her hood of red, 

Her plaid skirt close about her drawn, 
She floundered down the wintery lawn. 
How struggling through the misty veil 
Blown round her by the shrieking gale; 
Now sinking in a drift so low 
Her scarlet hood could scarcely show 
Its dash of color on the snow. 

She dropped for bird and beast forlorn 
Her little store of nuts and corn, 

And thus her timid quests bespoke: 

“ Come, squirrel, from your hollow 
oak,— 

Come, black old crow,—come, poor blue- 

jay* 

Before your supper’s blown away , 

Don’t be afraid, we all are good ; 

And I’m mamma’s Red Riding Hood! ” 

O Thou whose care is over all, 

Who heedest even the sparrow’s fall, 
Keep in the little maiden’s breast 
The pity which is now its quest; 

Let not her cultured years make less 
The childhood charm of tenderness, 

But let her feel as well as know. 

Nor harder with her polish grow ; 
Unmoved by sentimental grief 
That wails along some printed leaf. 

But, prompt with kindly word and deed 
To own the claims of all who need, 

Let the grown woman’s self made good 
The promise of Red Riding Hood. " 









7 “ 




























































126 


ROYAL ECHOES 



LISTEN TO ME THEN.” 


THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE 
SNOW. 

WM. CULLEN BRYANT. 

Alice .—One of your old-world stories, 
Uncle John, 

Such as you tell us by the winter fire, 
Till we all wonder it is grown so late. 

Uncle John .—The story of the witch that 
ground to death, 

Two children in her mill, or will you have 
The tale of Goody Cutpurse? 

Alice .—Nay now, nay; 

Those stories are too childish, Uncle 
John, 

Too childish even for little Willy here, 
And I am older, two good years, than he • 
No, let us have a tale of elves that ride, 


By night, with jingling reins, or gnomes 
of the mine, 

Or water-fairies, such as you know how 
To spin, till Willy’s eyes forget to wink, 
And good Aunt Mary, busy as she is, 
Lays down her knitting. 

Uncle John .—Listen to me, then. 

’Twas in the olden time, long, long ago, 
And long before the great oak at our 
door, 

Was yet an acorn, on a mountain’s side 
Lived, with his wife, a cottager. They 
dwelt 

Beside a glen and near a dashing brook, 
A pleasant spot in spring, where first the 
wren 


















POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


127 


Was heard to chatter, and, among the 
grass, 

Flowers opened earliest; but when winter 
came, 

That little brook was fringed with other 
flowers,— 

White flowers, with crystal leaf and stem, 
that grew 

In clear November nights. And,later still, 
That mountain glen was filled with 
drifted snows 

From side to side, that one might walk 
across, 

While, many a fathom deep below, the 
brook 

Sang to itself, and leaped and trotted on 
Unfrozen, o’er its pebbles, toward the 
vale. 

Alice .—A mountain-side, you said; the 
Alps, perhaps, or our own Alle- 
ghanies. 

Uncle John .—Not so fast, 

My young geographer, for then the Alps, 
With their broad pastures, haply were 
untrod 

Of herdsman’s foot, and never human 
voice 

Had sounded in the woods that over¬ 
hang 

Our Alleghany’s streams. I think it was 
Upon the slopes of the great Caucasus, 
Or where the rivulets of Ararat 
Seek the Armenian vales. That moun¬ 
tain rose 

So high, that, on its top, the winter snow 
Was never melted, and the cottagers 
Among the summer blossoms, far below, 


Saw its white peak in August from their 
door. 

One little maiden, in that cottage home, 

Dwelt with her parents, light of heart 
and limb, 

Bright, restl ess, thoughtless, flitting here 
and there, 

Like sunshine on the uneasy ocean waves, 

And sometimes she forgot what she was 
bid, 

As Alice does. 

Alice .—Or Willy, quite as oft. 

Uncle John .—But you are older, Alice, 
two good years, 

And should be wiser. Eva was the name 

Of this young maiden, now twelve sum¬ 
mers old. 

Now you must know that, in those early 
times, 

When Autumn days grew pale, there 
came a troop 

Of childlike forms from that cold moun¬ 
tain top; 

With trailing garments through the air 
they came, 

Or walked the ground with girded loins 
and threw 

Spangles of silvery frost upon the grass, 

And edged the brook with glistening 
parapets, 

And built it crystal bridges, touched the 
pool 

An d turned its face to glass, or rising 
thence, 

They shook from their full laps, the soft, 
light snow, 






ROYAL ECHOES. 


128 


And buried the great earth, as autumn 
winds 

Bury the forest floor in heaps of leaves. 

A beautiful race were they, with baby 
brows, 

And fair, bright locks, and voices like 
the sound 

Of steps on the crisp snow, in which they 
talked 

With man, as friend with friend. A 
merry sight 


But, when the spring came on, what ter¬ 
ror reigned 

Among these little People of the Snow! 

To them the sun’s warm beams were 
shafts of fire, 

And the soft south wind was the wind of 
death. 

Away they flew, all with a pretty scowl 

Upon their childish faces, to the north, 

Or scampered upward to the mountain’s 
top, 



It was, when, crowding round the trav¬ 
eler, 

They smote him with their heaviest 
snow flakes, flung 

Needles of frost in handfuls at his 
cheeks, 

And, of the light wreaths of his smoking 
breath, 

Wove a white fringe for his brown beard, 
and laughed 

Their slender laugh to see him wink and 
grin 

And make grim faces as he floundered 
on. 


And there defied their enemy, the spring. 

Skipping and dancing on the frozen 
peaks, 

And moulding little snow-balls in their 
palms, 

And rolling them, to crush her flowers 
below, 

Down the steep snow-fields. 

Alice. —That, too, must have been a 
merry sight to look at. 

Uncle John .—You are right. 

Bnt I must speak of graver matters now; 

Mid-winter was the time, and Eva stood 

Within the cottage, all prepared to dare 










POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


129 


The outer cold, with ample furry robe 

Close belted round her waist and hoots 
of fur, 

And a broad kerchief, which her moth¬ 
er’s hand 

Had closely drawn about her ruddy 
cheek. 

‘•Now, stay not long abroad,” said the 
good dame, 

“ For sharp is the outer air, and mark me 
well, 

“ Go not upon the snow beyond the spot 

Where the great linden bounds the 
neighboring field.” 

The little maiden promised, and went 
forth, 

And climbed the rounded snow-swells 
firm with frost 

Beneath her feet, and slid, with balanc¬ 
ing arms, 

Into the hollows. Once, as up a drift 

She slowly rose, before her, in the way, 

She saw a little creature, lily-cheeked, 

With flowing, flaxen locks, and faint blue 
eyes, 

That gleamed like ice, and robe that only 
seemed 

Of a more shadowy whiteness than her 
cheek. 

On a smooth bank she sat. 

Alice .—She must have been one of your 
Little People of the Snow. 

Uncle John .—She was so, and as Eva 
now drew near, 

The tiny creature bounded from her seat. 

“And come,” she said, “my pretty 
friend ; to-day 


We will be playmates. I have watched 
thee long, 

And seen how well thou lov’st to walk 
these drifts, 

And scoop their fair sides into little cells, 

And carve them with quaint figures, 
huge-limbed men, 

Lyons and griffins. We will have, to-day, 

A merry ramble over these bright fields, 

And thou shalt see what thou hast never 
seen.” 

On went the pair, until they reached the 
bound 

Where the great linden stood, set deep 
in snow 

Up to the lower branches. “Here we 
stop,” 

Said Eva, “ for my mother has my word 

That I will go no farther than this tree.” 

Then the snow-maiden laughed: “And 
what is this % 

This fear of the pure snow, the innocent 
snow, 

That never harmed aught living ? Thou 
mayst roam 

For leagues beyond this garden, and 
return 

In safety; here the grim wolf never 
prowls, 

And here the eagle of our mountain 
crags 

Preys not in winter. I will show the 
way 

And bring thee safely home. Thy 
mother, sure, 

Counseled thee thus because thou hadst 
no guide.” 






130 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


By such smooth words was Eva won to 

And a white vault above where snow- 

break 

stars shed 

Her promise, and went on with her new 

A wintry twilight. Eva moved in awe, 

friend, 

And held her peace, but the snow-maiden 

Over the glistening snow and down a 

smiled 

bank 

And talked, and tripped along, as down 

Where a white shelf, wrought by the 

the way 

eddying wind, 

* Deeper they went into that mountainous 



_ 


Like to a billow’s crest in the great sea, 
Curtained an opening. “ Look, we enter 
here.” 

And straight, beneath the fair o’er-hang- 
ing fold, 

Entered the little pair that hill of snow, 
Walking along a passage with white 
walls, 


And now the white walls widened, and 
the vault 

Swelled upward, like some vast cathedral 
dome, 

Such as the Florentine, who bore the 
name 

Of heaven’s most potent angel, reared, 
long since, 










POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


131 


Or the unknown builder of that won¬ 
drous fane, 

The glory of Burgos. Here a garden lay, 
In which the Little People of the Snow 
Were wont to take their pastime when 
their tasks 

Upon the mountain’s side and in the 
clouds 

Were ended. Here they taught the 
silent frost 

To mock, in stem and spray, and leaf 
and flower, 

The growths of summer. Here the palm 
upreared 

Its white columnar trunk and spotless 
sheaf 

Of plume-like leaves; here cedars, huge 
as those 

Of Lebanon, stretched far their level 
boughs, 

Yet pale and shadowless; the sturdy oak 
Stood, with its huge gnarled roots of 
seeming strength, 

Fast anchored in the glistening bank; 
light sprays 

Of myrtle, roses in their bud and bloom, 
Drooped by the winding walks; yet all 
seemed wrought 

Of stainless alabaster; up the trees 
Ran the lithe jessamine, with stalk and 
leaf 

Colorless as her flowers. “ Go softly on,” 
Said the snow-maiden; “ touch not, with 
thy hand, 

The frail creation round thee, and beware 
To sweep it with thy skirts. How look 
above. 


How sumptuously these bowers are 
lighted up 

With shifting gleams that softly come 
and go! 

These are the northern lights, such as 
thou seest 

In the midwinter nights, cold, wander¬ 
ing flames, 

That float, with our processions, through 
the air; 

And here, within our winter palaces, 

Mimic the glorious daybreak.” Then 
she told 

How, when the wind, in the long winter 
nights, 

Swept the light snows into the hollow 
dell, 

She and her comrades guided to its place 

Each wandering flake, and piled them 
quaintly up. 

In shapely colonnade and glistening arch, 

With shadowy aisles between; or bade 
them grow 

Beneath their little hands, to bowery 
walks 

In gardens such as these, and, o’er them 
all, 

Built the broad roof. “ But thou hast 
yet to see 

A fairer sight,” she said, and led the way 

To where a window of pellucid ice 

Stood in the wall of snow, beside their 
path. 

“ Look, but thou mayst not enter.” 
Eva looked, 

And lo ! a glorious hall, from whose high 
vault 





132 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Stripes of soft light, ruddy and delicate 
green, 

And tender blue, flowed downward to 
the floor 

And far around, as if the aerial hosts, 

That march on high by night, with beamy 
spears, 

And streaming banners, to that place 
had brought 

Their radiant flags to grace a festival. 

And in in that hall a joyous multitude 

Of those by whom its glistening walls 
were reared, 

Whirled in a merry dance to silvery 
sounds, 

That rang from cymbols of transparent 
ice, 

And ice-cups quivering to the skilful 
touch 

Of little fingers. Hound and round they 
flew, 

As when, in spring, about a chimney top, 

A cloud of twittering swallows, just 
returned, 

Wheel round and round, and turn and 
wheel again, 

Unraveling their swift track. So rap¬ 
idly 

Flowed the meandering stream of that 
fair dance, 

Beneath that dome of light. Bright 
eyes that looked 

From under lily-brows, and gauzy scarf 

Sparkling like snow-wreaths in the early 
sun, 

Shot by the window in their mazy whin. 

And there stood Eva, wondering at the 
sight 


Of those bright revellers and that grace 
ful sweep 

Of motion as they passed her Long she 
gazed, 

And listened long to the sweet sounds 
that thrilled 

The frosty air, till now the encroaching 
cold 

Recalled her to herself. “ Too long, too 
long, 

I linger here,” she said, and then she 
sprang 

Into the path, and witli a hurried step 

Followed it upward. Ever by her side 

Her little guide kept pace. As on they 
went, 

Eva bemoaned her fault. “ What must 
they think— 

The dear ones in the cottage, while so 
long, 

Hour after hour, I stay without ? I know 

That they will seek me far and near, and 
weep 

To find me not. How could I, wickedly, 

Ueglect the charge they gave me ? ” As 
she spoke, 

The hot tears started to her eyes. She 
knelt 

In the mid-path: “Father! forgive this 
sin ; 

Forgive myself I cannot”—thus she 
prayed, 

And rose and hastened onward. When, 
at last, 

They reached the outer air, the clear 
north breathed 

A bitter cold, from which she shrank 
with dread, 






POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


133 


But the snow-maiden bounded as she felt 
The eutting blast, and uttered shouts of 

j°y> 

And skipped, with boundless glee, from 
drift to drift, 

And danced round Eva, as she labored 

up 

The mounds of snow. “ Ah, me ! I feel 
mj eyes 

0-row heavy,” Eva said; “ they swim 
with sleep, 

I cannot walk for utter weariness, 

And I must rest a moment on this bank, 
But let it not be long.” As thus she 
spoke, 

In half-formed words, she sank on the 
smooth snow, 

With closing lids. Her guide composed 
the robe 

About her limbs, and said, “ A pleasant 
spot 

Is this to slumber in ; on such a couch 
©ft have I slept away the winter night, 
And had the sweetest dreams.” So Eva 
slept, 

But slept in death, for when the power 
of frost 

Locks up the motions of the living frame, 
The victim passes to the realm of Death 
Through the dim porch of Sleep. The 
little guide, 

Watching beside her, saw the hues of life 
Fade from the fair smooth brow and 
rounded cheek, 

As fades the crimson from a morning 
cloud, 

Till they were white as marble, and the 
breath 


Had ceased to come and go, yet knew 
she not 

At first that this was death. But when 
she marked 

How deep the paleness was, how motion¬ 
less 

That once lithe form, a fear came over 
her. 

She strove to wake the sleeper, plucked 
her robe, 

And shouted in her ear, but all in vain; 

The life had passed away from those 
young limbs. 

Then the snow-maiden raised a wailing 
CI 7’ 

Such as the dweller in some lonely wild, 

Sleepless through all the long Decem¬ 
ber night, 

Hears when the mournful East begins to 
blow. 

But suddenly was heard the sound of 
steps, 

Grating on the crisp snow; the cottagers 

Were seeking Eva; from afar they saw 

The twain, and hurried toward them. 
As they came, 

With gentle chidings ready on their lips. 

And marked that deathlike sleep, and 
heard the tale 

Of the snow-maiden, mortal anguish fell 

Upon their hearts, and bitter words of 
grief 

And blame were uttered. “ Cruel, cruel, 
one, 

To tempt our daughter thus, and cruel 
we, 

Who suffered her to wander forth alone 









134 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


in this fierce cold! ” They lifted the 
dear child, 

And bore her home and chafed her ten¬ 
der limbs, 

And strove, by all the simple arts they 
knew, 

To make the chilled blood move, and 
win the breath 

Back to her bosom; fruitlessly they strove; 

The little maid was dead. In blank dis- 
pair 

They stood, and gazed at her who never 
more 

Should look on them. “Why die we 
not with her ? ” 

They said, “ without her, life is bitter¬ 
ness.” 

Now came the funeral-day; the simple 
folk 

Of all that pastoral region gathered round 

To share the sorrow of the cottagers. 

They carved a way into the mound of 
snow 

To the glen’s side, and dug a little grave 

In the smooth slope, and, following the 
bier 

In long procession from the silent door, 

Chanted a sad and solemn melody, 

“ Lay her away to rest within the ground, 

Yea, lay her down whose pure and inno¬ 
cent life 

Was spotless as these snows ; for she was 
reared 

In love, and passed in love life’s pleas¬ 
ant spring, 

And all that now our tenderest love can 
do 

Is to give burial to her lifeless limbs.” 


They paused; a thousand slender voices 
round, 

Like echoes softly flung from rock and 
hill, 

Took up the strain, and all the hollow air 

Seemed mourning for the dead ; for, on 
that day, 

The Little People of the Snow had come, 

From mountain-peak, and cloud, and 
icy hall, 

To Eva’s burial. As the murmur died 

The funeral train renewed the solema 
chant; 

“ Thou, Lord, has taken her to be with 
Eve, 

Whose gentle name was given her. 
Even so, 

For so Thy wisdom saw that it was best 

For her and us. We bring our bleeding 
hearts, 

And ask the touch of healing from Thy 
hand, 

As, with submissive tears, we render 
back 

The lovely and beloved, to Him vdio 
gave.” 

They ceased; again the plaintive mur¬ 
mur rose; 

From shadowy skirts of low-hung clouds 
it came, 

And wide white fields, and fir-trees cap¬ 
ped with snow, 

Shivering to the sad sounds. They sank 
away 

To silence in the dim-seen distant woods. 

The little grave was closed ; the funeral 
train 

Departed; winter wore away; the 
spring 





POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


135 


Steeped with her quickening rains, the 
violet tufts, 

By fond hands planted where the maiden 
slept; 

But, after Eva’s burial, never more 
The Little People of the Snow were seen 
By human eye, nor ever human ear ,, 
Heard from their lips articulate speech 
again; 

For a decree went forth to cut them off, 
Forever, from communion with mankind. 
The winter clouds, along the mountain 
side, 

Rolled toward the vale, but no fair form 
Leaned from their folds, and, in the icy 
glens, 

And aged woods, under snow-loaded 
pines, 

Where once they made their haunt, was 
emptiness. 

But ever, when the wintry days drew 
near, 

Around that little grave, in the long 
night, 

Frost-wreaths were laid and tufts of sil¬ 
very rime 

In shape like blades and blossoms of the 
field, 

As one would scatter flowers upon a bier. 

HOW TO LIVE. 

LORD HOUGHTON. 

So should we live that every hour 
May die as dies the natural flower,— 

A self-reviving thing of power; 

That every thought and every deed 
May hold within itself the seed 
Of future good and future meed. 


THE M A Y Q UEEN. 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 

i You must wake and call me early, call 
me early, mother dear ; 

To-morrow’ll be the happiest time of all 
the glad new-year,— 

Of all the glad new-year, mother, the 
maddest, merriest day; 

For Pm to be Queen o’ the May, mother^ 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. 

There’s many a black, black eye, they 
say, but none so bright as mine; 

There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s Kate 
and Caroline, 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the 
land, they say : 

So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May; 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I 
shall never wake 

If you do not call me loud when the day 
begins to break, 

But I must gather knots of flowers and 
buds and garlands gay ; 

For I am to be Queen o’ the May, 
mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the 
May. 

As I came up the valley, whom think 
ye should I see 

j But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath 
the hazel-tree ? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, 
I gave him yesterday,— 

But I am to be Queen o’ the May, 
mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the 
May. 










136 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I 
was all in white ; 

And I ran by him without speaking, like 
a flash of light; 

They call me cruel-hearted, hut I care 
not what they say, 

For I’m to he Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. 

They say he’s dying all for love,—but 
that can never be ! 

They say his heart is breaking, mother, 
—what is that to me ? 

There’s many a bolder lad ’ill woo me any 
summer day, 

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, 
mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the 

May. 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow 
to the green, 

And you’ll be there, too, mother, to see 
me made the Queen ! 

For the shepherd lads o» every side’ll 
come from far away, 

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, 
mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the 
May. 

The honeysuckle ’round the porch has 
woven its wavy bowers, 

And by the meadow-trenches blow the 
faint sweet cuckoo-flowers, 

And the wild marsh-marigold shines like 
fire in swamps and hollows gray, 

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, 
upon the meadow-grass, 


And the happy stars above them seem to 
brighten as they pass ; 

There will not be a drop of rain the 
whole of the livelong day, 

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. 

All the valley, mother, ’ll be fresh and 
green and still, 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are 
over all the hill; 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale’ll 
merrily glance and play 

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call 
me early, mother dear, 

To-morrow ’ll be the happiest time of all 
the glad new-year, 

To-morrow ’ll be of all the year the mad¬ 
dest, merriest day, 

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. 


LITTLE ELLA . 

From the Wanderer. 

OWEN MEREDITH. 

I pace once more the pathways of my 
home. 

Lighthearted, and together, once we ran, 

I, and the infant guide that used to roam 

With me, the meads and meadow- 
banks among. 

At dusk and dawn—how light those 
little feet 

Danced through the dancing grass and 
waving wheat 













































































































































































13S 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Where’er far off, we heard the cuckoo’s 
song! 

I know now, little Ella, what the flowers 

Said to you then,'to make your cheek so 
pale ; 

And why the blackbird in our laurel 
bowers 

Spake to you only ; and the poor, pink 
snail 

Eeared less your steps than those of the 
May shower— 

It was not strange these creatures loved 
you so, 

And told you all. ’Twas not so long 
ago 

You were, yourself, a bird, or else a 
flower. 

And, little Ella, you were pale, because 

So soon you were to die. I know that 
now. 

And why there ever seemed a sort of 
gauze 

Over your deep blue eyes, and sad 
young brow. 

You were too good to grow up, Ella, 
you, 

And be a woman, such as I have known ! 

And so upon your heart they put a 
stone, 

And left you, dear, amongst the flowers 
and dew. 


THE SMACK IN SCHOOL. 

WM. PITT PARMER. 

A district school, not far away, 

’Mid Berkshire hills, one winter’s day, 
Was humming with its wonted noise 
Of three score mingled girls, and boys; 


Some few upon their tasks intent, 

But more on furtive mischief bent. 

The while the master’s downward look 
Was fastened on a copy-book, 

When suddenly, behind his back, 

Bose sharp and clear a rousing smack ! 
As ’twere a battery of bliss 
Let off in one tremendous kiss! 

“What’s that ? ” the startled master cries; 
“ That, thir,” a little imp replies, 

“ Wath William Willith, if you pleathe,— 
I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe ! ” 
With frown to make a statue thrill, 

The master thundered, “Hither Will!” 
Like wretch o’ertaken in his track, 

With stolen chattels on his back, 

Will hung his head in fear and shame, 
And to the awful presence came,— 

A great, green, bashful simpleton, 

The butt of all good-natured fun. 

With smile suppressed, and birch up¬ 
raised, 

The threatener faltered,—“ I’m amazed 
That you, my biggest pupil, should 
Be guilty of an act so rude ! 

Before the whole set school to boot,— 
What evil genius put you to’t ? ” 

“ ’Twas she herself, sir,” sobbed the lad, 
“ I did not mean to be so bad ; 

But when Susannah shook her curls, 

And whispered, I was ’fraid of girls, 

And durs’nt kiss a baby’s doll, 

I couldn’t stand it, sir, at all, 

But up and kissed her on the spot! 

I know—boo-hoo—I ought to not; 

But, somehow, from her looks—boo-hoo— 
I thought she kind o’wished me to! ” • 












“HITHER WILL.” 


139 
























































































































140 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



NOBODY'S CHILD. 

PHIL A H. CASE. 

Alone in the dreary, pitiless street, 

With torn old dress and bare cold feet. 
Hungry and shivering, and nowhere to 

go; 

The night’s coming on in darkness and 
dread, 

And the chill sleet beating upon my 
bare head. 

Oh! why does the wind blow upon me 
so wild, 

Is it because I’m nobody’s child ? 


































































































POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


141 


Just over the way there’s a flood of light, . 
And warmth and beauty, and all things | 
bright; 

Beautiful children, in robes so fair, 

Are caroling songs in rapture there. 

I wonder if they, in their blissful glee. 
Would pity a poor little beggar like me, 
Wandering alone in the merciless street, 
Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat. 

Oh! what shall I do when the night 
comes down 

In its terrible blackness all over the 
town ? 

Shall I lay me down ’neath the angry 
sky, 

On the cold hard pavements alone to die ? 
When the beautiful children their pray¬ 
ers have said, 

And mammas have tucked them up 
snugly in bed, 

No dear mother ever upon me smiled— 
Why is it, I wonder, that I’m nobody’s 
child? 

No father, no mother, no sister, not one 
In all the world loves me ; e’en the little 
dogs run 

When I wander too near them ; ’tis won¬ 
drous to see, 

How everything shrinks from a beggar 
like me \ 

Perhaps ’tis a dream; but, sometimes, 
when I lie 

Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, 
Watching for hours some large bright 
star, 

I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar. 


And a host of white-robed, nameless 
things, 

Come fluttering o’er me in gilded wings; 
A hand that is strangely soft and fair, 
Caresses gently my tangled hair, 

And a voice like the carol of some wild 
bird, 

The sweetest voice that was ever heard— 
Calls me many a dear pet name, 

Till my heart and spirits are all aflame. 

And tells me of such unbounded love, 
And bids me come up to their home 
above ; 

And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise, 
They look at me with their sweet blue 
eyes; 

And it seems to me out of the dreary 
night, 

I am going up to the world of light, 

And away from the hunger and storms 
so wild— 

I am sure 1 shall then be somebody’s 
child. 


TO A CHILD. 

Written in Her Album. 

WM. WORDSWORTH. 

Small service is true service while it 
lasts; 

Of humble friends bright creature! 
scorn not one; 

The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, 
Protects the lingering dew-drops from 
the sun. 








142 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



SIXTEEN 

MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER. 

Who shall guess what I may be ? 

Who can tell my fortune to me? 

For bravest and brightest that ever was 
sung, 

M ay be, and shall be, the lot of the young. 
KA TYDID. 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

I love to hear thine earnest voice, 
Wherever thou art hid, 

Thou testy little dogmatist, 

Thou pretty Katydid! 

Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,— 

Old gentlefolks are they,— 

Thou sayest an undisputed thing 
In such a solemn way. 


Thou art a female, Katydid ! 

I know it by the trill 

That quivers through thy piercing notes, 
So petulant and shrill.' 

I think there is a knot of you 
Beneath the hollow tree,— 

A knot of spinster Katydids,— 

Do Katydids drink tea ? 

O, tell me, where did Katy live, 

And what did Katy do ? 

And was she very fair and young, 

And yet so wicked too ? 

Did Katy love a naughty man, 

Or kiss more cheeks than one ? 

I warrant Katy did no more 
Than many a Kate has done. 


















































144 ROYAL ECHOES. 



‘‘For She Thought the very Hymn They 
Sang was all About Her Bonnet.” 

WHAT THE CHOIR SANG. 

ALICE C. HAMMOND. 

A foolish little maiden bought a foolish 
little bonnet, 

With a ribbon and a feather, and a bit 
of lace upon it. 

And that the other maidens of the little 
town might know it, 

She thought she’d go to meeting the next 
Sunday just to show it. 

But though the little bonnet was scarce 
larger than a dime, 

The getting of it settled proved to be a 
work of time: 


So when ’twas fairly tied all the bells 
had stopped their ringing, 

And when she came to meeting, sure 
enough, the folks were singing. 

So this foolish little maiden stood and 
waited at the door ; 

And she shook her ruffles out behind, 
and smoothed them down before. 

“Hallelujah! hallelujah!” sang the choir 
above her head— 

“Hardly knew you! hardly knew you!” 
were the words she thought they 
said. 

This made the little maiden feel so very, 
very cross, 

That she gave her little mouth a twist, 
her little head a toss; 

For she thought the very hymn they 
sang was all about her bonnet, 

With the ribbon and the feather and the 
bit of lace upon it. 

And she would not wait to listen to the 
sermon or the prayer, 

But pattered down the silent street and 
hurried up the stair, 

Till she’d reached her little bureau and 
in a band-box on it 

Had hidden safe from critic’s eye her 
foolish little bonnet. 

Which proves, my little maidens, that 
each of you will find 

In every Sabbath service but an echo of 
your mind; 

And that the little head, that’s filled 
with silly little airs 

Will never get a blessing from sermons 
or from prayers. 











POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


145 



LUCY GRAY. 


You yet may spy the fawn at 

P^y, 

The hare upon the green, 
But the sweet face of Lucy 
Gray 

Will never more be seen. 


“ To-night will be a stormy 
night,— 

You to the town must go; 

And take a lantern, child, to 
light 

Your mother through the snow.” 


WM. WORDSWORTH. 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, 
And when I crossed the 
wild, 

I chanced to see at break of 
day 

The solitary child. 


No mate, no comrade Lucy 
knew; 

She dwelt on a wide 
moor, 

The sweetest thing that ever 
grew, 

Beside a cottage door! 


Tie plied his work—and 
Lucy took 

The lantern in her hand. 


Hot blither is the mountain roe, 
With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery 
snow, 

rises up like smoke. 


That 


“That, father, will I gladly do, 

; Tis scarcely afternoon— 

The minster-clock has just struck 
two, 

And yonder is the moon ! ” 

At this the father raised his hook, 

And snapped a fagot band; 


The storm came on before its time, 
She wandered up and down ; 

And many a hill did Lucy climb, 
But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night, 
Went shouting far and wide, 








146 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


But there was neither sound nor sigh, 
To serve them for a guide. 

At day-break on the hill they stood, 
That overlooked the moor, 

And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
A furlong from the door. 

They wept—and turning homeward, 
cried, 

“ In heaven we all shall meet ; ” 
When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy’s feet 

Then downward from the steep hill’s 
edge, 

They tracked the footmarks small, 
And through the broken hawthorn 
hedge, 

And by the long stone-wall. 

And then an open field they crossed— 
The marks were still the same; 

They tracked them on, nor ever lost, 
And to the bridge they came. 

They followed from the snowy bank, 
Those footmarks, one by one, 

Into the middle of the plank, 

And further there were none ! 

Yet some maintain that to this day 
She is a living child ; 

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
Upon the lonesome wild. 

O’er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind ; 

And sings a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 


BABY BELL. 

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 

Have you not heard the poets tell 
How came the dainty Baby Bell 
Into this world of ours ? 

The Gates of Heaven were left ajar : 
With folded hands and dreamy eyes, 
Wandering out of paradise, 

She saw this planet, like a star, 

Hung in the glistening depths of even,— 
Its bridges, running to and fro, 

O’er which the wdiite-winged angels go, 
Bearing the holy dead to heaven. 

She touched a bridge of flowers,—those 
feet, 

So light they did not bend the bells 
Of the celestial asphodels,— 
i They fell like the dews upon the flowers: 
j Then all the air grew strangely sweet! 

| And thus came dainty Baby Bell 
j Into this world of ours. 

She came, and brought delicious May. 
The swallows built beneath the eaves ; 
Like sunlight, in and out the leaves 
The robins went the livelong day ; 

The lily swung its noiseless bell; 

And o’er the porch the trembling vine 
Seemed bursting with its veins ©f wine. 
How sweetly, softly, twilight fell! 

Oh, earth was full of singing birds 
And opening spring-tide flowers, 

When the dainty Baby Bell, 

Came to this world of ours. 

Oh, Baby, dainty Baby Bell, 








“Oh, Baby, Dainty Baby Bell.’’ 


147 




































































148 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


How fair she grew from day to da} 7 ! 
What woman-nature filled her eyes, 

So full of meaning, pure and bright 
As if she stood in the light 
Of those oped gates of Paradise. 

And so we loved her more and more : 
Ah, never in our hearts before 
Was love so lovely born ; 

We felt we had a link between 
This world and that unseen— 

The land beyond the morn ; 

And for the love of those dear eyes, 

The love of her whom God led forth, 
(The mother’s being ceased on earth 
When Baby came from Paradise),— 

For love of Him who smote our lives, 
And woke the chords of joy and pain, 
We said, Dear Christ !—our hearts bent 
down 

Like violets after rain. 

And now the orchards, which were white 
And red with blossoms when she came, 
Were rich in autumn’s mellow prime ; 
And cluster’d apples burnt like flame, 
The soft-cheek’d peaches blush’d and fell, 
The ivory chestnut burst its shell, 

The grapes hung purpling in the grange; 
And time wrought just as rich a change 
In little Baby Bell. 

Her lissome form more perfect grew, 
And in her features we could trace 
In soften’d curves, her mother’s face. 
Her angel-nature ripen’d, too : 

We thought her lovely when she came, 
But she was holy, saintly now :— 
Around her pale, angelic brow 
We saw a slender ring of flame ! 


God’s hand had taken away the seal 
That held the portals of her speech ; 
And oft she said a few strange words 
Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. 
She never was a child to us, 

We never held her being’s key; 

We could not teach her holy things : 

She was Christ’s self in purity. 

It came upon us by degrees, 

We saw its shadow ere it fell,— 

The knowledge that our God had sent 
His messenger for Baby Bell. 

We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, 
And all our hopes were change ! to fears, 
And all our thoughts ran into tears 
Like sunshine into rain. 

We cried aloud in our belief, 

“Oh, smite us gently, gently, God 1 
Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, 

And perfect grow through grief.” 

Ah, how we love her, God can tell; 

Her heart was folded deep in ours. 

Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell! 

At last he came, the messenger, 

The messenger from unseen lands : 

And what did dainty Baby Bell ? 

She only cross’d her little hands, 

She only look’d more meek and fair! 

We parted back her silken hair, 

We wove the roses round her brow,— 
White buds, the summer’s drifted snow,— 
Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers ! 
And thus went dainty Baby Bell 
Out of this world of ours ! 




POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


149 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST; 

A Fairy Tale. 

CHARLES LAMB. 

A Merchant, who by generous pains 
Prospered in honourable gains, 

Could boast, his wealth and fame to 
share, 

Three manly Sons, three Daughters fair; 
With these he felt supremely blest. 

His latest born surpass’d the rest : 

She was so gentle, good and kind, 

So fair in feature, form and mind, 

So constant too in filial duty, 

The neighbours called her Little Beauty! 
And when fair childhood’s days were 
run, 

That title still she wore and won ; 
Lovelier as older still she grew, 

Improv’d in grace and goodness too.. 

Her elder sisters, gay and vain, 

Yiew’d her -with envy and disdain, 
Toss’d up their heads with haughty air; 
Dress, Fashion, Pleasure, all their care. 

’Twas thus, improving and improv’d ; 
Loving, and worthy to be lov’d, 
Sprightly, yet grave, each circling day 
Saw Beauty innocently gay. 

Thus smooth the May-like moments past; 
Blest times ! but soon by clouds o’ercast! 
Sudden as winds that madd’ning sweep, 
T lie foaming surface of the deep, 

Yast treasures, trusted to the wave, 

Were buried in the billowy grave ! 

Our merchant, late of boundless store, 
Saw Famine hasten to his door. 

With willing hand and ready grace, 


Mild Beauty takes the servant’s place; 
Bose with the sun to household cares 
And morn’s repast with zeal prepares, 
The wholesome meal, the cheerful fire : 
I What cannot filial love inspire ? 
j And when the task of day was done, 
j Suspended till the rising sun, 
j Music and songs the hour’s employ’d, 

I As more deserv'd, the more enjoy’d; 

! Till Industry, with Pastime join’d, 
Refresh’d the body and the mind; 

And when the group retir’d to rest, 
Father and brothers' Beauty blest. 

Mot so the sisters; as before 
’Twas rich and idle, now ’twas poor. 

In shabby finery array’d, 

They still affected a parade : 

While both insulted gentle Beauty 
Unwearied in the housewife’s duty; 
They mocked her robe of modest brown, 
And view'd her with a taunting frown ; 
Yet scarce could hold their rage to see 
The blithe effects of Industry. 

In this retreat a year had past, 

When happier tidings came at last, 

And in the merchant’s smile appear’d 
Prospects that all the Cotters cheer’d ; 

A letter came ; its purport good ; 

Part of his ventures brav'd the flood; 

“ With speed,” said he, “ I must to 
town, 

“And what, my girls, must I bring 
down ? ” 

The envious sisters, all confusion, 
Commissions gave in wild profusion ; 
Caps, hats, and bonnets, bracelets, 
brooches. 









150 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


To cram tlie pockets of the coaches, 
With laces, linens, to complete 
The order, and to fill the seat. 

Such wants and wishes now appear’d, 

To make them larger Beauty fear’d ; 

Yet lest her silence might produce 
From jealous sisters more abuse, 
Considerately good, she chose, 

The emblem of herself,—a Rose, 

The good Man on his journey went, 

His thoughts on generous Beauty bent- 
“If Heav’n,” he said, and breath’d a 
prayer, 

“ If Ileay’n that tender child should 
spare, 

“ Whate’er my lot, I must be bless’d, 

“ I must be rich: ” he wept the rest. 
Timely such feelings!—Fortune still, 
Unkind and niggard, crost his will. 

Of all his hopes, alas, the gains 
Were far o’erbalanc’d by the pains; 

For after a long tedious round, 

He had to measure back his ground. 

A short day’s travel from his cot, 

Hew misadventures were his lot; 

Dark grew the air, the wind blew high, 
And spoke the gathering tempest nigh ; 
Hail, snow, and night-fog join’d their 
force, 

Bewildering rider and his horse. 
Dismay’d, perplex’t, the road they crost, 
And in the dubious maze were lost. 
When, glimmering through the vapours 
drear, 

A taper shew’d a dwelling near. 

And guess our Merchant’s glad surprize, 
When a rich palace seemed to rise 


As on he mov'd ! The knee he bent, 
Thankful to Heaven ; then nearer went. 
But, O ! how much his wonder grew, 
When nothing living met his view !— 
Entering a splendid hall, he found, 

With every luxury around, 

A blazing lire, a plenteous board; 

A costly cellaret, well stor’d. 

All open’d wide, as if to say, 

“ Stranger, refresh thee on thy way ! ” 

The Merchant to the fire drew near, 
Deeming the owner would appear, 

And pardon one who, drench’d in rain, 
Unask’d, had ventur’d to remain. 

The court-yard clock had number’d seven, 
When first he came ; but when eleven 
Struck on his ear as mute he sate, 

It sounded like the knell of Fate. 

And yet so hungry was he grown, 

He pick’d a capon to the bone ; 

And as choice wines before him stood, 
He needs must taste if they were good : 
So much he felt his spirits cheer’d— 

The more he drank, the less he fear’d. 

Now bolder grown, he pac’d along, 

(Still hoping he might do no wrong), 
When, entering at a gilded door, 
High-rais’d upon a sumptuous floor, 

A sofa shew’d all Persia’s pride, 

And each magnificence beside. 

So down at once the Merchant lay, 

Tir’d with the wonders of the day, 

But had it been a rushy bed, 

Tuck’d in the corner of a shed, 

With no less joy had it been press’d; 
The good man pray’d, and sank to rest. 






POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


151 



Nor woke lie till the noon of day; 

And as lie thus enchanted lay, 

“Now for my storm-sopp’d clothes,” he 
cries : 

When lo ! a suit complete he spies; 

“ Yes ’tis all fairy-work, no doubt, 

“ By gentle Pity brought about!” 
Tenfold, when risen, amazement grew; 
For bursting on his gazing view, 

Instead of snow, he saw fair bowers 
In all the pride of summer flowers. 
Entering again the hall, behold, 

Serv’d up in silver, pearl, and gold, 


A breakfast, form’d of all things rare, 
As if Queen Mab herself were there. 

And now he past, with spirits gay, 

A shower of Roses strew’d the way, 

E’en to his hand the branches bent : 

“ One of these boughs—I go content! 

“ Beauty, dear Beauty—thy request 
“ If I may bear away, I’m blest.” 

The Merchant pulled,—the branches 
broke !— 

A hideous growling while he spoke, 
Assail’d his startled ears; and then 
A frightful beast, as from a den, 



























152 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Rushing to view, exclaimed. “ Ingrate ! 
“ Jhat stolen branch has seal’d thy fate. 
“ All that my castle own’d was thine, 

“ My food, my fire, my bed, my wine : 

“ Thou robb’st my rose trees in return, 
“ For this, base plunderer, thou shalt 
mourn!” 

“ My Lord, I swear upon my knees, 

“ I did not mean to harm your trees ; 

“ But a lov’d Daughter, fair as spring, 

“ Intreated me a Rose to bring; 

“ O didst thou know, my Lord, the 
Maid !”— 

“ I am no Lord,” Beast angry said, 

“And so no flattery!—but know, 

“ If, on your oath before you go, 

“ Within three w T asted moons you here 
“ Cause that lov’d Daughter to appear, 
“And visit Beast a volunteer 
“ To suffer for thee, thou mayest live :— 
“ Speak not!—do this !—and I forgive.” 
Mute and deprest the Merchant fled, 
Unhappy traveller, evil sped ! 

Beauty was first her sire to meet, 
Springing impatient from her seat; 

Her brothers next assembled round ; 
Her straying sisters soon were found. 
While yet the Father fondly press’d 
The child of duty to his breast,— 

“ Accept these roses, ill-starr’d Maid ! 

“ For thee thy Father’s life is paid.” 

The Merchant told the tale of Beast; 
And loud lamentings when he ceas’d, 
From both the jealous sisters broke, 

And thus with taunting rage they spoke: 
“And so thou kill’st thy Father, Miss, 


“ Proud, sinful creature, heardst thou 
this ? 

“ We only wish’d a few new clothes ; 

“ Beauty, forsooth, must have her Rose! 
“ Yet, harden’d Wretch, her eyes are 
dry, 

“ Tho’ for her Pride our sire must die !” 

“ Die ! Not for worlds !” exclaimed the 
Maid ; 

“ Beast, kindly will take me instead : 

“ And O, a thousand deaths I’d prove 
“ To show my Father how I love !” 

The brothers cried, “ Let us away, 

“ We’ll perish, or the Monster slay.” 

“Vain hope, my gen’rous sons, liis 
power 

“ Can troops of men and horse devour ! 
“ Your offer, Beauty, moves my soul ; 

“ But no man can his fate control: 

“ Mine was the fault; you, Love, are free; 
“ And mine the punishment shall be.” 

Beauty was firm ! the Sire caress’d 
Again his Darling to his breast; 

With blended love and awe survey'd, 
And each good brother blest the Maid ; 

Three months elaps’d, her Father’s heart 
Heav’d high, as she prepar’d to part; 
The sisters try’d a tear to force, 

While Beauty smil’d as she took horse : 
Yet smil’d thro’ many a generous tear, 
To find the parting moment near! 

And just as evening’s shades came on. 
The splendid palace court they won. 
Beauty, now lost in wonder all, 

Gain’d with her sire the spacious hall; 
Where, of the costliest viands made, 
Behold, a sumptuous table laid ? 






POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


153 


The Merchant, sickening at the sight, 

Sat down with looks of dire affright, 

But nothing touch’d ; tho’ Beauty prest, 
And strove to lull his fears to rest. 

Just as she spoke, a hideous noise 
Announc’d the growling monster’s voice. 
And now Beast suddenly stalk’d for her, 
While Beauty well nigh sank to earth : 
Scarce could she conquer her alarms, 
Tho’ folded in a father’s arms. 

Grim Beast first question’d fierce, if she 
Had hither journied willingly ? 

“ Yes,” Beauty cried—in trembling tone : 
“ That’s kind,” said Beast, and thus went 
on— 

“ Good Merchant, at to-morrow’s dawn, 
“ I charge and warn you to be gone! 

“ And further on life’s penalty, 

“ Dare not again to visit me, 

“ Beauty, farewell!” he now withdrew, 
As she return’d the dread adieu. 

Each then their separate pillow prest, 
And slumber clos’d their eyes in rest. 

As zephyr light, from magic sleep, 

Soon as the sun began to peep, 

Sprang Beauty; and now took her way 
To where her anguish'd father lay.— 
But envious time stole swiftly on ; 

“ Begone ! lov’d Father! ah! begone ! 

“ The early dew now gems the thorn, 

“ The sunbeams gain upon the morn. 

“ Haste, Father, haste ! Heaven guards 
the good!” 

In wonder rapt the Merchant stood ; 
And while dread fears his thoughts em- 

P%> 


A child so generous still was joy. 

“ My father’s safe !” she cried, “ blest 
heaven! 

“ The rest is light, this bounty given.” 

She now survey’d th’ enchanting scene, 
Sweet gardens of eternal green ; 

Mirrors, and chandeliers of glass, 

And diamonds bright which those sur¬ 
pass; 

All these her admiration gain'd ; 

But now was her attention chain’d, 
When she in golden letters trac’d, 

High o’er an arch of emeralds plac’d : 

“ Beauty’s apartment ? Enter blest! 

“ This, but an earnest of the rest!’’ 

The fair one was rejoic’d to find, 

Beast studied less her eye, than mind, 
But, wishing still a nearer view, 

Forth from the shelves a book she drew, 
In whose first page, in lines of gold, • 
She might heart-easing words behold : 
u Welcome Beauty, banish fear! 

“You are Queen, and Mistress here : 

“ Speak your wishes, speak your will, 

“ Swift obedience meets them still.” 

“ Alas !” said she with heartfelt sighs, 
The daughter rushing to her eyes, 

“ There’s nothing I so much desire, 

“ As to behold my tender sire.” 

Beauty had scarce her wish express’d, 
When it was granted by the Beast : 

A wond’rous mirror to her eye, 

Brought all her cottage family. 

Here her good brothers at their toil, 
For still they dress’d the grateful soil; 
And then with pity she perceiv’d, 






154 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


How much for her the Merchant griev’d; 
How much her sisters felt delight 
To know her banish’d from their sight, 
Altho’ with voice and looks of guile, 
Their bosoms full of joy the while, 

They labour’d hard to force a tear, 

And imitate a grief sincere. ’ 

At noon’s repast she heard a sound 
Breathing unseen sweet music round ; 
But when the evening board was 
spread, 

The voice of Beast recall’d her dread : 
“May I observe you sup ?” he said; 

“ Ah, tremble not; your will is law; 

“ One question answer’d, I withdraw,— 
“ Am I not hideous to your eyes ?” 

“ Your temper’s sweet,” she mild replies. 
“ Yes, but I’m ugly, have no sense 
“ That’s better far, than vain pretence.” 
“ Try to be happy and at ease,” 

Sigh’d Beast, “ as I will try to please.” 

“ Your outward form is scarcely seen 
“ Since I arriv’d, so kind you’ve been.” 

One quarter of the rolling year, 

Ho other living creature near, 

Beauty with Beast had past serene, 

Save some sad hours that stole between. 
That she her Father’s life had sav’d, 
Upon her heart of hearts was grav’d : 
While yet she view’d the Beast with 
dread, 

This was the balm that conscience shed. 
But now a second solace grew, 

Whose cause e’en conscience scarcely 
knew. 

Here on a Monster’s mercy cast,— 


Yet, when her first dire fears were past, 
She found that Monster, timid, mild, 

Led like the lion by the child. 

Custom and kindness banish’d fear ; 
Beauty oft wish’d that Beast were near. 

Nine was the chosen hour that Beast 
Constant attended Beauty’s feast, 

Yet ne’er presum’d to touch the food. 

Sat humble, or submissive stood, 

Or, audience crav’d, respectful spoke, 
Nor aim'd at wit, or ribald joke, 

But oft’ner bent the raptur’d ear 
Or ravish’d eye, to see or hear. 

And if th’ appointed hour past by, 

’Twas mark’d by Beauty with a sigh. 

“ Swear not to leave me,” sigh’d the 
beast; 

ec I swear”—for now her fears were ceas'd, 
“ And willing swear,—so now and then 
“ I might my Father see again— 

“ One little week—he’s now alone.” 

“ Granted !” quoth Beast; “ your will 
be done l” 

“ Your ring upon the table lay 
“ At night,—you’re there at peep of day ; 
“ But, oh,—remember, or I die !” 

He gaz’d, and went without reply. 

At early morn she rang to rise; 

The Maid beholds with glad surprise ; 
Summons her Father to her side, 

Who, kneeling and embracing, cried, 
With rapture and devotion wild, 

“ O bless’d be Heaven, and blest my 
child! ” 

Beauty the Father now address’d, 

And straight to see her sister’s press’d. 







POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


155 


They both were married and both prov’d 
Neither was happy or belov’d. 

And when she told them she was blest 
With days of ease and nights of rest; 

To hide the malice of the s ml, 

Into the garden sly they stole, 

And then in floods of tears they vent 
Their hate, and feel its punishment. 

“ If,” said the eldest, “ you agree 
“ We’ll make that wench more curs’d 
than we! 

“ I have a plot, my sister dear, 

“ More than her week let’s keep her here. 
“No more wiih Monster shall she sup, 


“ Who, in his rage, shall eat her up.” 

And now such art they both employ’d, 
While Beauty wept, yet was o’erjoy’d; 
And when the stated hour was come, 

“ Air! can you quit so soon your home ?” 
Eager they question’d—tore their hair— 
And look’d the Picture of Despair. 
Beauty, tho’ blushing at delay, 

Promis’d another week to stay. 

Meantime, altho’ she err’d from love, 
Her conscious heart could ill approve— 
“Thy vow was giv’n, tl y vow was 
broke!” 





























106 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Thus Conscience to lier bosom spoke. 


Thoughts such as these assail’d her breast, 
And a sad vision broke her rest! 

The palace garden was the place, 

Which her imaginations trace ; 

There, on a lawn, as if to die, 

She saw poor Beast extended lie, 
Reproaching with his latest breath 
Beauty’s ingratitude in death. 

Rous’d from her sleep the contrite Maid 
The ring upon her toilette laid, 

And Conscience gave a sound repose : 
Balmy her rest; and when she rose, 



The palace of poor beast she found, 
Groves, gardens, arbours, blooming 
round : 

The morning shone in summer’s pride, 
Beauty for fairer evening sigh’d— 

Sigh’d for the object once so fear’d, 

By worth, by kindness now endear’d. 

Bat when had passed the wonted hour, 
And no wish’d footstep pass’d the door; 
When yet another hour lagg’d on,— 
Then to the wide canal she ran : 

“ For there in vision,” said the fair, 
“Was stretch’d the object of my care !” 
And there alas ! he now was found, 


& # s 

& .- 

ds* -V if 


- - »• • 


























POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


157 


Extended on the flowery ground. 

“ Ah! fond and faithful Beast,” she 
cried, 

“ Hast thou for me perfidious died ? 

“ O ! coulds’t thou hear my fervid prayer, 
“ ’Twould ease the anguish of despair.” 

Beast open’d now his long clos’d eyes, 
And saw the fair with glad surprise. 

“ In my last moments you are sent; 

“ Your pity, and I die content.” 

“ Thou shalt not die,” rejoin’d the Maid; 
“ O rather live to hate, upbraid— 

“ But no ! my grievous fault forgive ! 

“ I feel I can’t without thee live. 

Beauty had scarce pronounc’d the word, 
When magic sounds of sweet accord, 

The music of celestial spheres 
As if from seraph harps she hears! 
Amaz’d she stood,—new wonders grew ; 
For Beast now vanish’d from her view ; 
And lo ! a Prince, with every grace 
Of figure, fashion, feature, face, 

In whom all charms of Nature meet, 
Was kneeling at fair Beauty’s feet. 

“ But where is Beast ?” still Beauty 
cried : 

“ Behold him here !” the Prince replied. 
“ Orasmyn, lady, is my name, 

‘‘ In Persia not unknown to fame ; 

“ Till this re-humanizing hour, 

‘‘ The victim of a Fairy’s pow’r ;— 

“ Till a deliverer could be found, 

“Who, while the accursed spell still 
hound, 

“ Could first endure , tho’ with alarm, 

“ And break at last by lore the charm!” 
Beauty delighted gave her hand, 




And bade the Prince her fate command; 
The Prince now led through rooms of 
state, 

Where Beauty’s family await, 

In bridal vestments all array’d, 

By some superior power convey’d. 

‘•Beauty,” pronounc’d a heavenly voice, 
“Now take from me your princely 
choice. 

“ Yirtue, to every good beside 
“ While wit and beauty were denied, 

“ Fix’d your pure heart! for which, un¬ 
seen, 

“ I led your steps ; and now a Queen, 

“ Seated on Persia’s glittering throne, 

“ ’Tis mine and Virtue’s task to crown! 

“ But as for you, ye sisters vain, 

“ Still first and last in Envy’s train, 

“ Before fair Beauty’s Palace-gate, 

“ Such Justice has decreed your fate, 

“ Transform’d to statues you must 
dwell, 

“ Curs’d with the single power, to feel— 
“ Unless by penitence and prayer— 

“ But this will ask long years of care, 

“ Of promise and performance too, 

“ A change of mind from false to 
true— 

“ A change I scarce can hope from 
you.” 

Instant the Power stretch’d forth her 
wand, 

Her sceptre of supreme command, 

When lo ! at her resistless call, 

Gay crowds came thronging through the 
hall, 

The blissful hour to celebrate 










158 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


When Persia’s Prince resum’d his state: 
At once the dome with music rang, 

And virgins danc’d, and minstrels sang: 
It was the Jubilee of Youth, 

Led on by Virtue and by Truth: 

The pride of Persia fill’d the scene, 
They hail Orasmyn and his Queen ! 

BRING BACK MT FLOWERS. 


J. A. LINDBERG. 



“ Bring back my flowers, oh, brook !” 
The little maiden cried, 


As they were floating fast 
Adown the silvery tide. 

“ ’Twas but in fun I threw 
Them on your silvery wave, 

Therefore give back, I pray, 

What thoughtlessly I gave ! 

“ Bring back my flowers ! ” she cried, 
But oh, she cried in vain ; 

The rippling waves ne’er gave 
Her flowers back again. 

Yes, vainly did she cry, 

The waves went murmuring on, 

And, like the past, her flowers 
For evermore were gone. 

“ Bring back my flowers ! ” she cried, 

“ Bring back my flowers ! ” we’ll say; 

But vain, like hers, will be our cry, 

The past is gone for aye. 

For, like her flowers, but once 
We’ll pass adown life’s stream, 

And time that once is lost, 

Ho mortal can redeem ! 


TRUST. 

Build a little fence of trust 
Around to-day; 

Fill the space with loving work. 
And therein stay. 

Look out from the sheltering bars 
Upon to-morrow; 

God will give you grace to bear 
whate’er may come 
Of joy or sorrow. 













POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


159 


THE EG YETI AN PRINCESS. 

[Herodotus, Book II, Chap. 132.] 

EDWIN ARNOLD. 

There was fear and desolation over 
swarthy Egypt’s land, 

From the holy city of the sun to hot 
Syene’s sand; 

The sistrum and cymbal slept, the merry 
dance no more 

Trampled the evening river buds by 
"Nile’s embroidered shore; 

For the daughter of the king must die, 
the dark magicians said, 

Before the red had sunk to rest that day 
in ocean’s bed. 

And all that day the temple smoke 
loaded the heavy air ; 

But they prayed to one. who heedeth 
none, nor heareth earnest prayer. 

That day the gonfalons were down, the 
silver lamps untrimmed ; 

Sad at their oars the rowers sat, silent 
the Nile boat skimmed ; 

And through the land there went a wail 
of bitterest agony, 

From the iron hills of Nubia to the 
islands of the sea. 

There, in the very hall where once her 
laugh had loudest been, 

Where but that morning she had worn 
the wreath of Beauty’s Queen, 

She lay, a lost but lovely thing; the 
wreath was on her brow, 

Alas! the lotus might not match its chilly 
paleness now; 

And ever as the golden light sunk lower 
in the sky, 


Her breath came fainter, and the beam 
seemed fading in her eye. 

Her coal-black hair was tangled, and the 
sigh of parting day 

Stirred tremblingly its silky folds as on 
her breast they lay ; 

How heavily her rounded arm lay buried 
by her side! 

How droopingly her lashes seemed those 
star-bright eyes to hide! 

And once there played upon her lips a 
smile like summer air, 

As though death came with gentle face, 
and she mocked her idle fear. 

Low o’er the dying maiden’s form the 
king and father bows, 

Stern anguish holds the place of pride 
upon the monarch’s brows: 

“ My daughter, in the world thou leav’st 
so dark without thy smile, 

Hast thou one care a father’s love—a 
king’s word may beguile ? 

Hast thou one last light wish? ’Tis 
thine, by Isis’ throne on high, 

If Egypt’s blood can win it tliee, or 
Egypt’s treasure buy.” 

How anxiously he waits her words! 
Upon the painted wall, 

In long gold lines, the dying light be¬ 
tween the columns fall; 

It lends her sinking limbs a glow, her 
pallid cheek a blush; 

And on her lifted lashes throws a fitful, 
lingering flush; 

And on her parting lips it plays; oh! 
how they crowd to hear 





160 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


The words that will be iron chains to 
bind them to her prayer ; 

“ Father, dear father, it is hard to die so 
very young; 

Summer was coming, and I thought to 
see the flowers sprung. 

Must it be always dark like this ? I can 
not see tliy face-- 

I am dying; hold me, father, in thy kind 
and close embrace. 

Oh, let them sometimes bear me where 
the merry sunbeams lie ! 

I know thou wilt. Farewell, farewell! 
’Tis easier now to die I” 

Small need of bearded leeches there; 
not all Arabia’s store 

Of precious balm could purchase her one 
ray of sunlight more. 

Was it strange that tears were glistening 
where tears should never be, 

When death had smitten down to dust 
the beautiful and free ? 

Was it strange that warriors should raise 
a woman’s earnest cry 

For help and hope to heaven’s throne, 
when such as she must die ? 

And ever when the shining sun has 
brought the summer round, 

And the Nile rises fast and full along 
the thirsty ground, 

They bear her from her silent home to 
where the gay sunlight 

May linger on the hollow eyes that once 
were starry bright, 


And strew sweet flowers upon her breast; 

while gray-haired matrons tell 
Of the high Egyptian maiden-queen that 
loved the light so well! 


DAISIES. 

MARGARET EYTINGE. 

She was a little Irish maid, 

With light brown hair and eyes of gray, 
And she had left her native shore 

And journeyed miles and miles away 
Across the ocean, to the land, 

Where waves the banner of the free; 
And on her face a shadow lay, 

For sick at heart for home was she. 

When from the city’s dust and heat 
And ceaseless noise,they took her where 
The birds were singing in the trees, 

And flower fragrance filled the air, 
And their leaf-crowned heads upraised 
To greet the pretty gray-eyed lass, 

A million blossoms starred the road 
And grew among the waving grass. 

“Why, here are daisies !” glad she cried, 
And, with hands clasped, sank on her 
knees; 

“Now God be praised, who east and west 
Scatters such lovely things as these ! 
Around my mother’s cabin door 
In dear old Ireland they grow, 

With hearts of gold and slender leaves 
As white as newly fallen snow.” 

Then up she sprang with smiling lips, 
Though on her cheek there lay a tear, 
“This land’s not half so strange,” she said, 
“Since I have found the daisies here.'* 







ROYAL ECHOES. 


161 



“Let me see,—I should think that 
this milk will procure, 

' One hundred good eggs or fourscore, 
to be sure. 

Well, then,—stop a bit, —it must not 
be forgotten, 

Some of these may be broken, and 
some may be rotten: 

But if twenty for accident should be 
detached, 

1 HE MILK-MAID. It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to 

Jeffreys taylor. he hatched. 


A milk-maid, who poised a full pail on 
her head, 

Thus mused on her prospects in life it is 
said: 


Well, sixty sound eggs,—no, sound chick¬ 
ens, I mean. 

Of these some may die,—we’ll suppose 
seventeen. 











162 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Seventeen ! not so many,—say ten at the 
most, 

Which will leave fifty chickens to boil 
or to roast. 

But then there’s their barley ; how much 
will they need ? 

Why, they take but one grain at a time 
when they feed, 

So that’s a mere trifle, now then let us see, 

At a fair market price how much money 
there’ll be 

Six shillings a pair—five—four—three- 
and-six, 

To prevent all mistakes that low price 
J will fix; 

blow what will that make ? Fifty chick¬ 
ens 1 said,— 

Fifty times three and sixpence,— Pit ask 
brother Ned. 

O, but stop,—three and sixpence a pair 1 
must sell ’em; 

Well, a pair is a couple,—now then let 
us tell ’em; 

A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain !) 

Why, just a score of times, and five pair 
will remain. 

Twenty-five pair of fowls—now how tire¬ 
some it is 

That I can’t reckon up so much money as 
this! 

Well, there’s no use in trying, so let’s 
give a guess,— 

I’ll say twenty pounds, and it can't be 
no less. 

Twenty pounds I am certain will buy me 
a cow, 

Thirty geese and two turkeys, eight pigs 
and a sow ; 


Now if these turn out well, at the end of 
the year, 

I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 
’tis clear.” 

Forgetting her burden, when this she 
had said, 

The maid superciliously tossed up her 
head; 

When, alas for her prospects! her milk- 
pail descended, 

And so all her schemes for the future 
were ended. 

This moral, I think, may be safely 
attached: 

Reckon not on your chickens before they 
are hatched. 


A FAREWELL. 

CHAS. KINGSLEY. 

My fairest child, I have no song to give 
you; 

No lark could pipe to skies so dull 
and gray; 

Y et, ere we part, one lesson 1 can leave 
you 

For every day. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will 
be clever, 

Do noble things, not dream them, all 
day long; 

And so make life, death, and that vast 
Forever 

One grand, sweet song. 






POEMS FOR GIRLHOOD. 


163 



Death of Little Nell. 


LITTLE NELUS FUNERAL. 

CHARLES DICKENS. 

And now the bell, the bell 
She had so often heard by night and day, 
And listened to with solemn pleasure, 
E’en as a living voice— 

Rung its remorseless toil for her, 

So young, so beautiful, so good. 

Decrepit age, and vigorous life 
And blooming youth, and helpless in¬ 
fancy, 

Poured forth on crutches, in the pride 
of strength 


And health, in the full blush 

Of promise, the mere dawn of life— 

To gather ’round her tomb. Old men 
were there 

Whose eyes were dim and senses failing. 

Grandames, who might have died ten 
years ago, 

And still been old—the deaf, the blind, 
the lame, the palsied. 

The living dead in many shapes and 
forms, 

To see the closing of this early grave. 

What was the death it would shut in, 










164 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


To that which still would crawl and keep 
above it ? 

Along the crowded path they bore her 
now; 

Pure as the new fallen snow 

That covereth it; whose day on earth had 
been as fleeting. 

Under that porch, where she had sat 
when Heaven 

In mercy brought her to that peaceful 
spot, 

She passed again, and the old church 

Received her in its quiet shade. 

They carried her to one old nook 

Where she had many and many a time 
sat musing, 

And laid their burden softly on the 
pavement, 

The light streamed on it through 

The colored window—a window where 
the boughs 

Of trees were ever rustling 

In the summer, and where the birds 

Sang sweetly all day long. 


THREE WORDS OF STRENGTH. 

FREDERIC SCHILLER. 

There are three lessons I would write_ 

Three words as with a burning pen, 

In tracings of eternal light 
Upon the hearts of men. 

Have Hope. Though clouds environ 
r^und. 

And gladness hides her face in scorn, 
Put oif the shadow from thy brow— 

Ho night but hath its morn. 


Have Faith. Where’er thy bark is 
driven— 

The calm’s disport, the tempest’s 
mirth— 

Know this: God rules the hosts of 
heaven, 

The inhabitants of earth. 

Have Love. Not love alone for one; 
But man, as man, thy brother call; 

And scatter, like the circling sun, 

Thy charities on all. 

Thus grave these lessons on thy soul— 
Hope, Faith, and Love—and thou 
shalt find 

Strength when life’s surges rudest roll, 
Light when thou else wert blind. 


SIR DANDELION 

GEORGE COOPER. 

Dandelion, dandelion, 

Where’s your cap of gold ? 

Where’s the jacket green and trim 
That you wore of old ? 

Then you nodded to every tune 
The breeze could play. 

Dandelion, dandelion, 

Age comes creeping on. 

And your wig is snowy white,— 
Golden locks are gone. 

But you’ve had a merry time 
Since your days began, 

And even now you are a cheery, 
Blithe old man. 






c^ 


PART FOUR. 


••• 
• •• 



oems for Boyhood. 


••• 

••• 




165 













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A 



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i 



166 





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V • >«br ; ir L • 










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j?o then, come over, young scholars,-and listen, 

Helping yourselves as in honor you ought! 

Vv T e’ll tell you things that’ll make your eyes glisten, 
Brighten the spirit, and heighten the thought. 

Martin F. Tapper. 


THE BAREFOOT B07. 

J. G. WHITTIER. 


Blessings on thee, little man, 

Barefoot boy, with cbeek of tan! 

With thy turned-up pantaloons, 

And thy merry whistled tunes ; 

With thy red lips, redder still, 

Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 
With the sunshine on thy face, 
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; 
From my heart I give thee joy ; 

I was once a barefoot boy ! 

Prince thou art—the grown-up man, 
Only is republican. 

Let the million-dollared ride ! 


Barefoot, trudging at his side, 

Thou hast more than he can buy 
In the reach of ear and eye; 

Outward sunshine, inward joy : 

I Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 

O! for boyhood’s painless play, 

Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules, 
Knowledge never learned in schools; 
Of the wild bee’s morning chase, 

Of the wild flower’s time and place, 
Flight of fowl and habitude 




















u Blessings on Thee, Little Man — 
Barefoot Boy, with Cheek of Tan !” 








• 











170 















































































































































































POEMS FOR BOYHOOD. 


171 


Of the tenants of the wood; 

How the tortoise hears his shell, 

How the woodchuck digs his cell, 

And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
How the robin feeds her young, 

How the oriole’s nest is hung, 

Where the whitest lilies blow, 

Where the freshest berries grow, 

Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine; 
Of the black wasp’s cunning way, 

Mason of his walls of clay, 

And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans! 

For eschewing books and tasks, 

Nature answers all he asks; 

Hand in hand with her he walks, 

Face to face with her he talks, 

Part and parcel of her joy, 

Blessings on the barefoot boy! 

O, for boyhood’s time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw, 

Me, their master waited for! 

I was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees; 

For my sport the squirrel played, 

Plied the snouted mole his spade; 

For my taste the blackberry cone, 
Purpled over hedge and stone; 

Laughed the brook for my delight 
Through the day and through the night, 
Whispering at the garden-wall, 

Talked with me from fall till fall; 

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 

Mine on bending orchard trees, 

Apples of Hesperides! 

Still, as my horizon grew, 


Larger grew my riches, too ; 

All the world I saw or knew, 

Seemed a complex Chinese toy 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy! 

O, for festal dainties spread, 

Like my bowl of milk and bread, 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 

On the door-stone gray and rude! 

O’er me like a regal tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed the sunset bent, 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
While for music came the play 
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra ; 

And, to light the noisy choir, 

Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 

I was monarch: pomp and joy, 

Waited on the barefoot boy! 

Cheerily, then, my little man, 

Live and laugh as boyhood can! 
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-speared the new mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 

Every evening from thy feet, 

Shall the cool wind kiss the heat; 

All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride, 

Lose the freedom of the sod, 

Like a colt’s, for work be shod, 

Made to tread the mills of toil, 

I Up and down in ceaseless moil: 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground; 

Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin; 
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 







172 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



“ O, Lonely Shepherd Boy.” 


THE SHEPHERD BOY 

LETTIA E. LANDON. 

Like some vision olden, 

Of far other time, 

When the age was golden, 

In the young world’s prime, 
Is thy soft pipe ringing, 

O, lonely shepherd boy; 
What song art thou singing 
In thy youth and joy ? 

Or art thou complaining 
Of thy lonely lot, 

And thine own disdaining, 

Dost ask what hast thou not ? 
Of the future dreaming, 

Weary of the past, 

For the present scheming— 

All but what thou hast ? 

Ho, thou art delighting 
In thy summer home; 

Where the flowers inviting 
Tempt the bee to roam; 
Where the cowslips, bending 
With its golden bells, 

Of each glad hour’s ending, 
With a sweet chime tells. 

All wild creatures love him 
When he is alone; 

Every bird abore him 
Sings its softest tone, 
Thankful to high Heaven, 
Humble in thy joy, 

Much to thee is given, 

Lowly shepherd boy. 










POEMS FOR BOYHOOD. 


173 


THE STORY BOOK. 

CHAS. WEST THOMPSON. 

Come hither, mj boy, and sit by my 
knee, 

And I’ll read thee a tale of the olden 
time— 

A taie of the wild and wandering bee, 
Who went to listen the harebell’s 
chime. 

It was in the flowery month of June, 
When all was laughing in earth and 
sky, 

And the mountain rivulets sang a tune 
Of freedom and love as they bounded 

by— 

When the daisy lifted its modest head 
In the lonely path of the wilderness, 

And the buttercups over the fields were 
spread, 

Like an army of flowers in fairy dress— 

It was in this beautiful month of bloom, 
Two bees went forth in the morning 
air, 

To rove, raid a garden’s rich perfume, 
And sip the sweets that were lavished 
there. 

The one went on from flower to flower, 
And gently drank the nectared dew— 

From the wild-rose path to the wood¬ 
bine bower, 

The haunt of each fragrant leaf he 
knew. 

He stopped to peep in the lily’s bell, 
And hummed a tune in the violet’s 
ear— 

And his kiss so soft on the lilac fell, 


That she scarcely moved her head for 
fear. 

But he roved along in gentle mood, 

Just dallied a moment, and then away, 

Nor reveled in sweets till his sober 
blood 

To the flames of excess had become a 
prey. 

The other, a proud and thoughtless elf, 
Drank deep whenever he found the 
dew ; 

With a fool’s delight he pleased himself, 
Nor dreamed how much he might 
after rue. 

He rambled about from flower to flower, 
And searched for the strongest and 
deepest perfume, 

And wasted many an idle hour 

’Mid the garden’s vilest and rankest 
bloom, 

’Till at length he came where a honied 
jar 

With open mouth invited him in ; 

He saw the luscious delight afar, 

And eagerly flew to the tempting sin. 

The evening came with its balmy 
breeze, 

And its silent hour of deep repose, 

And there sounded a voice thro’ the 
motionless trees 

That every winged creature knows— • 

A voice that comes like a gentle moan, 
Of the land of shadows and sleep to 
tell— 

And the sober bee, at that whispered 
tone, 




174 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Flew back in peace to his dainty cell, 

But his careless friend heard not the call 
That came from the land of shades 
afar, 

For he lay a ruined, self-martyred 
thrall, 

O’er whelmed in the sweets of the hon¬ 
ied jar. 

The story is done—but remember, child, 
The wholesome truth which the tale 
would say, 

Nor be by pleasure’s delights beguiled 
From virtue’s safer and calmer way. 


COME AS YOU ARE. 

A Rhyme for Ragged Schools. 

MARTIN F. TUPPER. 

Come to the schools that your friends 
are preparing, 

Poor little brothers, come over to us! 

Just as you stand in the clothes you are 
wearing 

Though they be ragged and scanty as 
thus; 

Come from the alley, the lane, and the 
passage, 

Come in your rags,—but as clean as 
you can; 

We have a mission to each, and a message, 

Happy and true, of his rights as a man. 

Don’t be down-hearted, if fools for an 
hour 

Laugh at your schooling and treat it 
with scorn, 

Answer them truly, that “ Knowledge is 
Power,” 

And that a blockhead were better un¬ 
born ; 


Laugh as they may, your laugh will be 
longest, 

Yours is for ever, theirs but for once 5 

Soon shall they own you, both wisest 
and strongest, 

Scholars must govern the fool and the 
dunce! 

Yes, my boys, come ! without fear or 
suspicion ; 

All that we wish is your gain and 
your good; 

Body and soul to improve your condi¬ 
tion, 

And we would better it more if we 
could ; 

But where we cannot, yourselves may 
be able 

"Willingly coming to hear and to learn, 

How, for the soul to be happy and stable, 

And, for the body your living to earn ! 

So then, come over, young scholars, and 
listen, 

Helping yourselves, as in honor you 
ought! 

We’ll tell you things that’ll make your 
eyes glisten, 

Brighten the spirit, and heighten the 
thought; 

Come then, and welcome, in rags and in 
tatters, 

Anyhow come,—but as clean as you 
can; 

Come, and learn gladly these glorious 
matters, 

All the best rights in the duties of 
man ! 












POEMS FOR BOYHOOD. 






“COME AS YOU ARE.” 
















































































































176 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


THE BOYS' FREE EXCURSION . 

MRS. M. J. HATCH. 

The following verses were written by a lady 
who takes delight in the welfare of youth, com¬ 
memorating the free excursions inaugurated 
through the instrumentality of the New York 
Times , for the boys of New York City, who are 
without the means or opportunity of such rational 
enjoyment as the exuberance of youth requires, 
unalloyed by debasing tendencies. 

Morn has opened clear and bright, 

Now that Phoebus lends his light, 
Quaffing off the balmy dews 
With his rosy, sunny hues. 

Now the homeless leave their lair ; 

Early birds these urchins are, 

On the wharf are gath’ring more, 

Some of six years, some of four. 

Fourteen is the age that’s set, 

But there’re older ones we’ve met; 
Stunted in their growth are some, 
Bean-poles others have become. 

Some have slipped away from work, 

And have gained the name of shirk ; 
Bound to have a day of fun, 

And a lounge out in the sun. 

Heads that stopped not to be combed, 

To the dock have early roamed, 

With brimless hats and ragged pants, 
Slipping off from ’mas and aunts. 

Restless, noisy in their play, 

Glancing often toward the bay, 
Watching for the steamer’s puff, 
Jumping, punching like a rough; 

Shouting, “ Mister let me go! ” 

When the “ Cop,” his face doth show; 
“ Here’s your ticket—get in place— 
Never mind the dirty face,— 


Clean ones would be better, sure, 

But your place you'd best secure.” 

Others coming with mammas, 

Laughing loudly their ha-ha’s. 

Holding on tomamma’s skirt, 

Barefoot, but with tidy shirt— 

Hark ! “ She’s coming,” shout the boys, 
“ I can tell it by the noise.” 

“ Puff—puff—puff—puff—” 

Mimics now the little rough, 

See the paddles how they splash, 

As she enters with a crash. 

Never mind, they’ve gained the decks, 
And you see they’ve saved their necks; 

“ Haul the plank—ahoy—boatswain,” 
Then a lunch they’ll soon obtain ; 

As they gather into line, 

Each appears to think it fine, 

Ready hands are thrust out, which 
Soon receive a nice sandwich. 

Dainty nibbling is not seen, 

Morning air makes hunger keen, 

Some their thank-ee’s come out pat, 
Others have not come to that. 

Hark! The whistle loudly shrieks, 

And the boys begin their freaks, 

Each in turn his back will lay, 

While leap-frog the others play. 

Some are turning like a wheel, 

Others getting up a reel; 

Now the band begins to play, 

“ Rally ’round the flag,” the lay. 

Lively, cheering, are the tones, 

And the lads bring out their “ *bones;” 

Half the fun’s in joining in, 

Letting out the mirth within. 























































































































































































































































































































































































178 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Some are watching distant sails, 

Each the passing steamer hails, 

All have learned the air to fill 

With their shouts, to pay the bill. 

There’s a quiet, thoughtful boy, 

In the sports he seems so coy, 

Yet, within that eye is light 

Which some day may show its might. 

'Will he soldier be, or bard, 

Priest, or poor man, working hard ; 

Merchant, with his ships at sea, 

Gained by steady honesty; 

Miser, storing up his hoard, 

Rich man, that is rich by frauds? 

Is there any here to-day 

That will be his country’s stay ? 

Hark ! the whistle shrieks once more, 
And they’re landed on the shore, 

Signs of welcome there you trace, 

On that cheery farmer’s face. 

Soon goes up one loud “ Hurray! ” 

And they’re tumbling on the hay; 

Tables groan with wholesome food, 

And the boys pronounce it good. 

Then their eyes begin to gleam, 

As to each is served a cream; 

Smack their lips and thank-ee’s look, 
Then put off to find the brook. 

Search their pockets for some twine— 
Any string will do for line ; 

Pins or fish-hooks, either’s right,— 
Angling in the brook is light. 

Some are climbing up the trees, 

Others drinking in the breeze, 


Lolling on the new mown grass, 

Fearing not the word “trespass.” 

Happy each in his own way, 

Till at last they’ve spent the day, 

Then the farmer blows his horn, 

And the merriment is borne 

Back, once more into the boat. 

Soon the steamer is afloat; 

Tired now they clasp the rail,— 

Watch again the distant sail, 

Slowly dropping off to sleep, 

Rocked for once upon the deep ; 

Softly, thrice, the music said, 

“ Put me in my little bed.” 

Roused again to step ashore, 

Home they find themselves once more; 

Thankful hearts will bless the man, 

Who in these joys led the van. 


THE POOR MAN TO HIS SON. 

ELIZA COOK. 

Work, work, my boy, be not afraid, 
Look labor boldly in the face ; 

Take up the hammer or the spade, 

And blush not for your humble place. 

Hold up your brow in honest pride, 
Though rough and swarth your hands 
may be; 

Such hands are sap-veins that provide 
The life-blood of the nations tree. 

There’s honor in the toiling part, 

That finds us in the furrow’d fields; 

It stamps a crest upon the heart 

Worth more than all your quarter’d 
shields. 





POEMS FOR BOYHOOD. 


179 



SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 

MARY D. BRINE. 

The woman was old and ragged and gray, 
And bent with the chill of the winter’s 
day; 

The street was wet with a recent snow, 
And the woman’s feet were aged and slow. 


She stood at the crossing and waited long 
Alone, tmcared for, amid the throng 


Of human beings who passed her by, 
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. 


Down the street, with laughter and shout. 
Glad in the freedom of “ school let out,” 





























180 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Came the boys like a flock of sheep, 
Hailing the snow piled white and deep; 

Past the woman so old and gray, 
Hastened the children on their way. 

Nor offered a helping hand to her, 

So meek, so timid, afraid to stir 

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses’ 
feet 

Should crowd her down in the slippery 
street. 

At last came one of the merry troop— 
The gayest laddie of all the group; 

He paused beside her, and whispered low: 
“ I’ll help you across if you wish to go.” 

Her aged hand on his strong young arm 
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm, 

He guided the trembling feet along, 
Proud that his own were firm and strong. 

Then back again to his friends he went, 
His young heart happy and well content. 

“She’s somebody’s mother, boys, you 
know, 

Por all she’s aged and poor and slow; 

And I hope some fellow will lend a 
hand 

To help my mother, you understand, 

If ever she’s poor and old and gray, 
When her own dear boy is far away.” 

And “ somebody’s mother” bowed low 
her head 

In her home that night, and the prayer 
she said 

Was: “ God be kind to the noble boy, 
Who is somebody’s son and pride and 

joy!” 


THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 

JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL. 

The snow had begun in the gloaming, 
And busily all the night 
Had been heaping field and highway 
W ith a silence deep and white. 

Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl; 

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 
From sheds new roofed with Carrara 
Came chanticleer’s muffled crow, 

The stiff rails were softened to swan’s- 
down, 

And still fluttered down the snow. 

I stood and watched by the window 
The noiseless work of the sky, 

And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 
Like brown leaves whirling by ; 

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
Where a little headstone stood— 

How the flakes were folding it gently, 
As did robins the Babes in the Wood, 
Up spoke our own little Mabel, 

Saying: “Father, who makes it snow?” 
And I told of the good All-Father 
Who cares for us here below, 

And again to the child I whispered, 

“ The snow that husheth all, 

Darling, the iperciful Father 
Alone can make it fall!” 

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed 
her; 

And she, kissing back, could not know 
That my kiss was given to her sister, 
Folded close under deepening snow. 




POEMS FOR BOYHOOD. 


181 



OLD MAXIMS . 

AXiICK CARY. 

1 think there are some maxims 
Under the sun, 

Scarce worth preservation; 

Bnt here, boys, is one 
So sound and so simple 
’Tis worth while to know; 

And all in the single line, 

“ Hoe your own row! ” 

If you want to have riches, 
And want to have friends, 
Don't trample the means down 
And look for the ends ; 

But always remember 
Where ever you go 


The wisdom of practicing, 

“ Hoe your own row ! ” 

Don’t just sit and pray 
For increase of your store, 

But work; who will help himself, 
Heaven helps more. 

The weeds while you are sleeping, 
Will come up and grow, 

But if you would have the 
Full ear, you must hoe ! 

Nor will it do only 
To hoe out the weeds; 

You must make your ground mellow 
And put in the seeds; 

And when the young blade 
Pushes through, you must know 























182 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


There is nothing will strengthen 
Its growth like the hoe! 

There’s no use of saying 
What will be, will be; 

Once try it, my lack-brain, 

And see what you’ll see ! 

Why, just small potatoes, 

And few in a row; 

You’d better take hold then 
And honestly hoe! 

A good many workers 
I’ve known in my time— 

Some builders of houses, 


Some builders of rhyme ; 

And they that were prospered, 
Were prospered, I know, 

By the intent and meaning of 
“ Hoe your own row!” 

I’ve known, too, a good many 
Idlers, who said, 

“ I’ve right to my living, 

The world owes me bread! ” 
A right ! Lazy lubber ! 

A thousand times no ! 

’Tis his, and his only, 

Who hoes his own row. 



HOME , SWEET HOME. 

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 

’Mid pleasures and palaces though 
we may roam, 

Be it ever so humble there’s no 
place like home! 

A charm from the skies seems to 
hallow us here, 

Which, seek through the world 
is ne’er met with elsewhere. 

Home! home, sweet home! 

There’s no place like home ! 

An exile from home, splendor 
dazzles in vain! 

O, give me my lowly thatched 
cottage again! 

The birds singing gaily that came 
to my call, 

O, give me sweet peace of mind, 
dearer than all! 

Home! home, sweet home! 

There’s no place like home! 







POEMS FOR BOYHOOD. 


183 


GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OE 
CORN , MOTHER. 

The Irish Famine. 

AMELIA BLANDFORT EDWARDS. 

Give me three grains of corn, mother,— 
Only three grains of corn; 

It will keep the little life I have 
’Till the coming of the morn. 

I am dying of hunger and cold, mother,— 
Dying of hunger and cold ; 

And half the agony of such a death 
My lips have never told. 

It has gnawed, like a wolf, at my heart, 
mother, 

A wolf that is fierce for blood ; 

All the livelong day, and the night 
beside, 

Gnawing for lack of food. 

I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother, 
And the sigh was heavy to see; 

I awoke with an eager, famishing lip, 
But you had no bread for me. 

How could I look to you, mother, 

How could I look to you, 

For bread to give to your starving 
boy, 

When you were starving too 1. 

For I read the famine in your cheek, 
Amd in your eyes so wild, 

And I felt it in your bony hand, 

As you laid it on your child. 

The Queen has lands and gold, mother,— 
The Queen has lands and gold, 


While you are forced to your empty 
breast, 

A skeleton babe to hold,— 

A babe that is dying of want, mother, 
As I am dying now, 

With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, 
And famine upon its brow. 

What has poor Ireland done, mother,— 
What has poor Ireland done, 

That the world looks on, and sees us 
starve, 

Perishing one by one ? 

Do the men of Ireland care not, 
mother,— 

The great men and the high,— 

For the suffering sons of Erin’s isle, 
Whether they live or die ? 

There is many a brave heart here, mother, 
Dying of want and cold, 

While only across the Channel, mother, 
Are many that roll in gold ; 

There are rich and proud men there, 
mother, 

With wondrous wealth to view, 

And the bread they fling to their dogs 
to-night, 

Would give life to me and you. 

Come nearer to my side, mother, 

Come nearer to my side, 

And hold me fondly, as you held 
My father when he died ; 

Quick, for I cannot see you, mother, 

My breath is almost gone; 

Mother! dear mother ! ere I die, 

Give me three grains of com. 








184 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



THE YOUTH AND THE NORTH 
WIND. 

JOHK GODFREY SAXE. 

Once on a time—’twas long ago,— 

There lived a worthy dame, 

Who sent her son to fetch some flour, 
For she was old and lame. 

But while he loitered on the road, 

The North wind chanced to stray 

Across the careless younker’s path, 

And stole the flour away. 

“ Alas! what shall we do for bread ? ” 
Exclaimed the weeping lad; 

“ The flour is gone!—the flour is gone!— 
And it was all we had! ” 

And so he sought the North wind’s cave, 
Beside the distant main ; 


“ Good Mister Boreas! ” said the lad, 

“ I want my flour again ! ” 

“ ’Twas all we had to live upon,— 

My mother old and I; 

O give us back the flour again, 

Or we shall surely die ! ” 

“ I have it not,” the North wind growled; 

“But for your lack of bread, 

I give to you this table-cloth; 

’Twill serve you well instead.” 

“For you have but to spread it out, 

And every costly dish, 

Will straight appear at your command, 
Whatever you may wish.” 

The lad received the magic cloth, 

With wonder and delight, 












POEMS FOR BOYHOOD. 


185 



And now the younker spread it forth, 
And tried the spell—alas! 

’Twas but a common table-cloth, 

And nothing came to pass. 


Then to the North wind, far away, 

He sped with might and main; 

“ Your table-cloth is good for naught, 
I want my flour again! ” 


“ I have it not,” the North wind 
growled, 

w But, for your lack of bread, 

I give to you this little goat, 

’Twill serve you well instead.” 


And thanked the donor heartily, 
As well, indeed, he might. 

Returning homeward, at an inn 
Just half his journey through, 
He fain must show his table-cloth, 
And what the cloth could do. 


Your Table-Cloth is Good For Naught, 
I Want My Flour Again I” 


“ For you have but to tell him this:— 
‘ Make money! Master Bill! ’ 

And he will give you golden coins, 
As many as you will! ” 


He showed the dame his table-cloth, 
And told her of its power; 

“Good sooth!” he cried, “ twas well for us, 
The North wind stole the flour! ” 


“ Perhaps,” exclaimed the cautious crone, 
The story may be true; 

’Tis mighty little good, I ween, 

Your table-cloth can do! ” 


So while he slept, the knavish host 
Went slyly to his bed, 

And stole the cloth,—but shrewdly 
placed 

Another in its stead. 

Unknowing what the rogue had done, 
The lad went on his way, 

And came unto his journey’s end 
Just at the close of day. 


The lad received the magic goat, 
With wonder and delight, 

And thanked the donor heartily, 
As well indeed he might. 

Returning homeward, at the inn 
Just half his journey through, 
He fain must show his little goat, 
And what the goat could do. 

So while he slept the knavish host, 
Went slyly to the shed, 











186 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


And stole the goat,—but shrewdly 
placed 

Another in his stead. 

Unknowing what the rogue had done, 
The youth went on his way, 

And reached his weary 
journey’s end, 

Just at the close of day. 

He showed the dame his 
magic goat, 

And told her of his 
power; 

“Good sooth!” he cried, 

“’twas well for us 
The North wind stole 
the flour! ” 

“I much misdoubt,” the 
dame replied, 

“Your wondrous tale is 
true; 

’Tis little good for hungry 
folk, 

. Your silly goat can do!” 

“Good Master Bill!” the 
lad exclaimed, 

“Make money!”—but, 
alas!— 

’Twas nothing but a com¬ 
mon goat, 

And nothing came to pass ! 

Then to the Northwind, angrily, 

He sped with might and main ; 

“ Your foolish goat is good for 
naught; 

I want my flour again! ” 


«I have it not,” the North wind growled, 
“ Nor can I give you aught, 

Except this cudgel,—which, indeed, 

A magic charm has got;” 

“ For you have but to tell it this: 

‘ My cudgel!—hit away!’ 



And, till you bid it stop again, 

The cudgel will obey!” 

Returning home, he stopped at night 
Where he had lodged before ; 

And feigning to be fast asleep, 

He soon began to snore. 

















POEMS FOR BOYHOOD. 


187 


And when the host would steal the staff, 
The sleeper muttered, “stay, 

I see what you would fain be at; 

Good cudgel!—hit away!” 

The cudgel thumped about his ears, 

Till he began to cry, 

“O stop the staff, for mercy’s sake! 

Or I shall surely die !” 


He kept his mother tenderly, 

And cheered her waning life ; 

And married—as you may suppose— 
A princess for a wife; 

And while he lived, had ever near 
To favor worthy ends, 

A cudgel for his enemies, 

And money for his friends ! 



“ Returning Home He Stopped at Night, 
Where He had Lodged Before.” 


But still the cudgel thumped away 
Until the rascal said, 

“ I’ll give you back the cloth and goat, 
O spare my broken head!” 

And so it was, the lad reclaimed 
His table-cloth and goat; 

And, growing rich, at length became 
A man of famous note ! 


THORNS OR FLOWERS. 

GERAED MASSEY. 

There is no lack of kindness 
In this world of ours; 

Only in our blindness 

We gather thorns for flowers. 
Oh, cherish God’s best giving, 
Falling from above! 

Life were not worth living 
Were it not for love. 








188 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 

KATE P. OSGOOD. 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, 
He turned them into the river-lane; 

One after another he let them pass, 

Then fastened the meadow-bars again. 

Under the willows and over the hill, 

He patiently followed their sober pace; 

The merry whistle for once was still, 
And something shadowed the sunny 
face. 

Only a boy! and his father had said 
He never could let the youngest go! 

Two already were lying dead 

Under the feet of the trampling foe. 

But after the evening work was done, 
And the frogs were loud in the 
meadow swamp, 

Over his shoulder he slung his gun, 

And stealthily followed the foot-path 
damp,— 

Across the clover and through the wheat, 
With resolute heart and purpose grim, 

Though cold was the dew on his hurry¬ 
ing feet, 

And the blind bats’ flitting startled 
him. 

Thrice since then had the lanes been 
white, 

And the orchard sweet with apple- 
bloom; 

And now, when the cows came back at 
night, 

The feeble father drove them home. 


For news had come to the lonely farm 
That three were lying where two had 
lain; 

And the old man’s tremulous, palsied 
arm 

Could never lean on a son’s again. 

The summer day grew cool and late; 

He went for the cows when the work 
was done; 

But down the lane as he opened the gate, 
He saw them coming, one by one,— 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 
Shaking their horns in the evening 
wind, 

Cropping the buttercups out of the 
grass— 

But who was it following close behind? 

Loosely swung in the idle air 
The empty sleeve of army blue; 

And worn and pale, from the crisping 
hair, 

Looked out a face that the father knew,— 

The great tears sprung to their meeting 
eyes; 

“For the heart must speak when the 
lips are dumb,” 

And under the silent evening skies, 
Together they followed the cattle 
home. 

For gloomy prisons will sometimes yawn, 
And yield their dead into life again; 

And the day that comes with a cloudy 
dawn, 

In golden glory at last may wane. 




POEMS FOR BOYHOOD. 


189 



A CHIPPEWA LEGEND. 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

The old Chief, feeling now well nigh his 
end, 

Called his two eldest children to his side, 

And gave them, in few words, his parting 
charge: 

“My son and daughter, me ye see no 
more;— 

The happy hunting-grounds await me, 
green 

With change of spring and summer 
through the year, 

But, for remembrance, after I am gone* 

Be kind to little Sheemah for my sake : 


Weakling he is and young, and knows 
not yet 

To set the trap, or draw the seasoned 
bow ; 

Therefore of both your loves he hath 
more need, 

And he, who needeth love, to love hath 
right; 

It is not like our furs and stores of corn, 
Whereto we claim sole title by our toil, 
But the Great Spirit plants it in our 
hearts, 

And waters it, and gives it sun, to be 
The common stock and heritage of all; 
Therefore be kind to Sheemah, that 
yourselves 

May not be left deserted in your need.” 
Alone beside a lake, their wigwam stood, 
Far from the other dwellings of their 
tribe; 

And, after many moons, the loneliness 
Wearied the elder brother, and he said: 
“Why should I dwell here all alone, shut 
out 

From the free, natural joys that fit my 
age ? 

Lo, I am tall and strong, well skilled to 
hunt, 

Patient of toil and hunger, and not yet 
Have seen the danger which I dared not 
look 

Full in the face; what hinders me to be 
A mighty Brave and Chief among my 
kin?” 

So, taking up his arrows and his bow, 
As if to hunt, he journeyed swiftly on 
Until he gained the wigwams of his 
tribe, 
















190 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



Where, choosing out a bride he soon forgot, 
In all the fret and bustle of new life, 
The little Sheemah and his father’s 
charge. 

Now when the sister found her brother 
gone, 

And that, for many days, he came not 
back, 

She wept for Sheemah 
more than for herself; 

For love bides longest in 
a woman’s heart, 

And flutters many times 
before he flies. 

And then doth perch so 
nearly, that a word 
May lure him back, as 
swift andglad as light; 

And Duty lingers even 
when Love is gone, 

Oft looking out in hope 
of his return; 

Amd, after Duty hath 
been driven forth, 

Then Selfishness creeps 
in the iast of all, 

7 j. 

W arming her lean hands 
at the lonely hearth, 

And crouching o’er the 
embers, to shut out 
Whatever paltry warmth 
and light are left, 

With avaricious greed, 
from all beside; 

So for long months, the 
sister hunted wide, 

And cared for little Shee¬ 
mah tenderly; 


But, daily more and more, the loneliness 

Grew wearisome, and to herself she 
sighed: 

“Am I not fair? at least the glassy 
pool, 

That hath no cause to flatter, tells me 
so; 

But, O, how flat and meaningless the tale, 


the Glassy Pool, 
to Flatter, Tells Me So,” 


“Am I Not Fair? at Least 
That Hath no Cause 






POEMS FOR BOYHOOD. 


191 


Unless it tremble on a lover’s tongue ! 

Beauty hath no true glass, except it be 

In the sweet privacy of loving eyes. 

Thus dreamed she idly, and forgot the 
lore 

Which she had learned of nature and 
the woods, 

That beauty’s chief reward is to itself, 

And that the eyes of Love reflect alone 

The inward fairness which is blurred 
and lost 

Unless kept clear and white by Duty’s 
care. 

So she went forth and sought the haunts 
of men, 

And, being wedded, in her household 
cares, 

Soon, like her elder brother, quite forgot 

The little Sheemah and her father’s 
charge. 

But Sheemah, left alone within the 
lodge, 

Waited and waited, with a shrinking 
heart, 

Thinking each rustle was his sister’s 
step, 

Till hope grew less and less, and then 
went out, 

And every sound was changed from 
hope to fear. 

Few sounds there were:—the dropping 
of a nut, 

The squirrel’s chirrup, and the jay’s 
harsh scream, 

Autu mn ’s sad remnants of blithe sum¬ 
mer’s cheer, 

Heard at long intervals, seemed but to 
make 


The dreadful void of silence silenter. 

Soon what small store his sister left was 
gone, 

And through the autumn, he made 
shift to live 

On roots and berries, gathered in much 
fear 

Of wolves whose ghastly howl he heard 
ofttimes, 

Hollow and hungry, at the dead of night. 

But winter came at last, and, when the 
snow, 

Thick-heaped for gleaming leagues o’er 
hill and plain, 

Spread its unbroken silence over all, 

Made bold by hunger he was fain to 
glean 

(More sick at heart than Ruth, and all 
alone) 

After the harvest of the merciless wolf, 

Grim Boaz, who, sharp-ribbed and gaunt, 
yet feared 

A thing more wild and starving than 
himself; 

Till, by degrees, the wolf and he grew 
friends 

And shared together all the winter 
through. 

Late in the spring, when all the ice was 
gone, 

The elder brother, fishing in the lake 

Upon whose edge his father’s wigwam 
stood, 

Heard a low moaning noise upon the 
shore; 

Half like a child it seemed, half like a 
wolf, 

And straightway there was something in 
his heart 






192 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


That said, “It is thy brother Sheemah’s 
voice.” 

So, paddling swiftly to the bank, he saw, 

Within a little thicket close at hand, 

A child that seemed fast changing to a 
wolf, 

From the neck downward, gray with 
shaggy hair, 

That still crept on and upward as he 
looked. 

The face was turned away, but well he 
knew 

That it was Sheemah’s even his brother’s 
face, 

Then with his trembling hands he hid 
his eyes, 

And bowed his head, so that he might 
not see 

The first look of his brother’s eyes, and 
cried: 

“O Sheemah ! O my brother, speak to 
me! 

Dost thou not know me, that I am thy 
brother ? 

Come to me, little Sheemah, thou shalt 
dwell 

With me henceforth, and know no care 
or want!” 

Sheemah was silent for a space, as if 

’Twere hard to summon up a human 
voice, 

And, when he spake, the sound was of a 
wolf’s: 

“I know thee not, nor art thou what thou 
sayest; 

I have none other brethren than the 
wolves, 


And, till thy heart be changed from 
what it is, 

Thou art not worthy to be called their 
kin.” 

Then groaned the other, with a choking 
tongue, 

“Alas! my heart is changed right 
bitterly ; 

’Tis shrunk and parched within me even 
now !” 

And, looking upward fearfully, he saw 

Only a wolf that shrank away and ran, 

Ugly and fierce, to hide among the 
woods. 


TO- DA T. 

THOMAS CARLYLE. 

So here hath been dawning 
Another blue day; 

Think, wilt thou let it 
Slip useless away? 

Out of Eternity 

This new day is born; 

Into Eternity 

At night will return. 

Behold it aforetime 
No eye ever did; 

So soon it forever 
From all eyes is hid. 

Here hath been dawning 
Another blue day; 

Think, wilt thou let it 
Slip useless away? 




POEMS FOR BOYHOOD. 


193 



SHY DEER. 

Beside the silver-footed deer 
There grazed a spotted fawn. 

The cottage dame forbade her son 
To aim the rifle here; 

“ It were a sin,’’ she said, “ to harm 
Or fright that friendly deer. 

“ This spot has been my pleasant home 
Ten peaceful years and more; 

And ever, when the moonlight shines 
She feeds before our door. 


THE WHITE-FOOTED 
DEER . 

WM. CULLEN BRYANT. 

It was a hundred years ago, 

When, by the woodland 
ways, 

The traveller saw the -wild- 
deer drink, 

Or crop the birchen 
spray. 

Beneath a hill, whose rocky 
side 

O’erbrowed a grassy 
mead, 

And fenced a cottage from 
the wind, 

A deer was wont to feed. 


But when the broad midsummer moon 
Bose o’er that grassy lawn; 


She only came when on the 
cliffs 

The evening moonlight 
lay, 

And no man knew the 
secret haunts, 

In which she walked by 
day. 


White were her feet, her 
forehead showed 
A spot of silvery white; 

That seemed to glimmer like a star 
In Autumn’s hazy night. 


And here, when sang the whippoorwill, 
She cropped the sprouting leaves, 

And here her rustling steps were heard 
On still October eves. 








194 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


“ The red-men say that here she walked 
A thousand moons ago ! 

They never raise the war-whoop here. 
And never twang the bow. 

“ I love to watch her as she feeds, 

And think that all is well 

While such a gentle creature haunts 
The place in which we dwell.” 

The youth obeyed, and sought for game 
In forests far away, 

Where, deep in silence and in moss, 

The ancient woodland lay. 

But once, in autumn’s golden time 
He ranged the wild in vain, 

Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, 
And wandered home again. 

The crescent moon and crimson eve 
Shone with a mingling light; 

The deer, upon the grassy mead, 

Was feeding full in sight. 

He raised the rifle to his eye, 

And from the cliffs around 

A sudden echo, shrill and sharp, 

Gave back its deadly sound. 

Away, into the neighboring wood, 

The startled creature flew, 

And crimson drops at morning lay 
Amid the glimmering dew. 

Next evening shone the waxing moon 
As brightly as before; 

The deer upon the grassy mead 
Was seen again no more. 

But ere that crescent moon was old, 

By night the red-men came, 


And burned the cottage to the ground, 
And slew the youth and dame. 

Now woods have overgrown the mead, 
And hid the cliffs from sight; 

There shrieks the hovering hawk at 
nooh, 

And prowls the fox at night. 


TO A BOY WITH A WATCH. 

8IR THOMAS MOORE. 

Is it not sweet, beloved youth, 

To rove through Erudition’s bowers, 

And cull the golden fruits of truth, 

And gather Fancy’s brilliant flowers ? 

And is it not more sweet than this, 

To feel thy parents’ hearts approving, 

And pay them back in sums of bliss 
The dear, the endless debt of loving ? 

It must be so to thee, my youth ; 

With this idea toil is lighter; 

This sweetens all the fruits of truth, 
And makes the flowers of Fancy 
brighter. 

The little gift we send thee, boy, 

May sometimes teach thy soul to 
ponder, 

If indolence or siren joy 

Should ever tempt that soul to wander; 

’Twill tell thee that the winged day 
Can ne’er be chain’d by man’s en¬ 
deavor ; 

That life and time shall fade away, 
While heaven and virtue bloom for 
ever! 





POEMS FOR BOYHOOD. 


195 ' 


How once, when on Galilee 

A ship was tossed atid almost lost, 
One came to them on the sea. 

Then suddenly ceased the tempest’s roar, 
And the lake lay smooth as a polished 
floor. 

O, the blessed faith of a little child ! 

His heart grew strangely warm, 

And he went to bed 
So comforted 



THE FISHER-BOY'S FAITH 

MRS. J. M. DANA. 

The fisher-boy gazed from the cottage 
door 

Far over the restless sea, 

And he sadly cried, 

“ Oh, coming tide, 

Bring my father home to me ; 

The waves dash high in their caps of 
white, 

I know there will be a storm to-night.” 


“The Waves Dashed High 
“How bring me, Johnny,” the mother 
said, 

“ The Bible from off the stand; 

Dc you know, my child, 

These waves so wild 
Are held in our Father’s hand ? 

Have you forgotten the ‘ Peace, be still,’ 
Or the wind and waves that obeyed His 
will?” 

They read the beautiful story o’er, 


in Their Caps of White” 

Though his father was in the storm. 
For had he not prayed with all his might, 
“O, Jesus, walk on the sea to-night.” 

His father came with the early dawn, 
And told of his wild despair— 

When the ocean’s swell 
In a moment fell, 

And a mighty calm was there. 

He did not know, or the weary crew, 
How it happened so—but Johnny knew. 








196 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



CASABIANCA. 

MRS. FELICIA D. HEMANS. 

Young Casabianca, a boy thirteen years old, 
son of the Admiral of the Orient, remained at 
his post, (in the battle of the Nile) after the ship 
had taken fire and all the guns had been aban¬ 
doned, and perished in the explosion of the vee- 
sel, when the flames had reached the powder. 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 
Whence all but him had fled; 

The flame that lit the battle’s wreck, 
Shone round him o’er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm; 

A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud though childlike form. 


The flames rolled on; he would not go 
Without his father’s word; 

That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud, “Say, father, say, 

If yet my task is done;” 

He knew not that the chieftain lay 
Unconscious of his son. 

“Speak, father!” once again he cried, 
“If I may yet be gone!” 

And but the booming shots replied, 
And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 
And in his waving hair, 























POEMS FOR BOYHOOD. 


197 


And looked from that lone post of death 
In still yet brave despair; 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

“My father! must I stay?” 

While o’er him fast, through sail and 
shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild, 
They caught the flag on high, 

And streamed above the gallant child, 
Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound, 
The boy,—Oh! where was he? 

Ask of the winds, that far around 
With fragments strewed the sea,— 

With shroud and mast and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part,— 

But the noblest thing that perished there 
Was that young, faithful heart. 

PRINCIPLE PUT TO THE 
TEST. 

WILLIAM COWPER. 

A youngster at school, more sedate than 
the rest, 

Had once his integrity put to the test; 
His comrades had plotted an orchard to 
rob, 

And asked him to go and assist in the job. 

He was very much shocked,and answered, 
“O no! 

What, rob our good neighbor! I pray you 
don’t go. 

Besides, the man’s poor—his orchard’s 
his bread, 

Then think of his children, for they must 
be fed.” 


“You speak very fine, and you look very 
grave, 

But apples we want, and apples we’ll 
have; 

If you’ll go with us, we’ll give you a 
share, 

If not, you shall have neither apple nor 
pear.” 

He spoke and James pondered—“I see 
they will go; 

Poor man! what a pity to injure him so! 

Poor man! I would save him his fruit if 
I could; 

But staying behind will do him no good. 

If this matter depended alone upon me, 

His apples might hang till they drop 
from the tree; 

But since they will take them, I think I 
go too; 

He will lose none by me, though I get 
a few.” 

His scruples thus silenced, James felt 
more at ease, 

And went with his comrades the apples 
to seize. 

He blamed and protested, but joined in 
the plan; 

He shared in the plunder, but pitied the 
man. 

Conscience slumbered awhile, but soon 
woke in his breast, 

And in language severe the delinquent 
addressed: 

“With such empty and selfish pretenses 
away! 

By your actions you’re judged, be your 
speech what it may.” 





198 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


MY PLAYMATE. 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

The pines were dark on Ramoth Hill, 
Their song was soft and low; 

The blossoms in the sweet May wind 
Were falling like the snow. 

The blossoms drifted at our feet, 

The orchard birds sang clear; 

The sweetest and the saddest day 
It seemed of all the year. 

For, more to me than birds or flowers, 
My playmate left her home, 

And took with her the laughing spring, 
The music and the bloom. 

She kissed the lips of kith and kin, 

She laid her hand in mine; 

What more could ask the bashful boy 
Who fed her father’s kine. 

She left us in the bloom of May; 

The constant years told o’er 

Their seasons with as sweet May morns, 
But she came back no more. 

I walk with noiseless feet the round 
Of uneventful years; 

Still o’er and o’er I sow the spring 
And reap the autumn ears. 

She lives where, all the golden year, 

The summer roses blow; 

The dusky children of the sun 
Before her come and go. 

There, haply, with her jeweled hands, 
She smooths her silken gown— 


Ho more the homespun, lap wherein 
I shook the walnuts down. 

The wild-grapes wait us by the brook, 
The brown nuts on the hill; 

And still the May-day flowers make sweet 
The woods of Follymill. 

The lilies blossom in the pond, 

The bird builds in the tree, 

The dark pines sing on Ramoth Hill 
The slow song of the sea. 

t 

I wonder if she thinks of them, 

And how the old time seems— 

If e’er the pines of Ramoth Wood 
Are sounding in her dreams. 

I see her face, I hear her voice; 

Does she remember mine ? 

And what to her is now the boy 
Who fed her father’s kine ? 

What cares she that the orioles build 
For other eyes than ours— 

That other hands with nuts are filled, 
And other laps with flowers ? 

O playmate ! in the olden time, 

Our mossy seat is green; 

Its fringing violets blossom yet, 

The old trees o’er it lean. 

The winds, so sweet with birch and fern, 
A sweeter memory blow; 

And there in spring the veeries sing 
The song of long ago. 

And still the pines of Ramoth Wood 
Are moaning like the sea— 

The moaning of the sea of change 
Between myself and thee. 





V 




“The Blossoms Drifted at Our Feet.” 


199 



















































































































































































































200 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


“ZF.” 

If you your lips 

Would keep from slips, 

Five things observe with care*. 

Of whom you speak, 

To whom you speak, 

And how, and when, and where. 

If you your ears 

Would save from jeers, 

These things keep meekly hid : 
Myself and I, 

And mine and my, 

And how I do or did. 

A CLUSTER OF NEVERS. 

Never utter a word of slang, 

Never shut the door with a bang, 
Never say once that “you don’t care,” 
Never exaggerate, never swear, 

Never lose your temper, much, 

Never a glass of liquor touch, 

Never wickedly play the spy, 

Never, O never, tell a lie ! 

Never your parents disobey ; 

Never at night neglect to pray. 

Remember these maxims 
Through all the day, 

And you will be happy 
At work or play. 


THE BOY, THE PIGEON AND THE 
FOX. 

GOETHE. 

A boy a pigeon once possessed 
In gay and brilliant plumage dressed; 
He loved it well, and in boyish sport 
Its food to take from his mouth he taught, 


And in his pigeon he took such pride, 

That his joy to others he needs must 
confide. 

An aged fox near the place chanced to 
dwell, 

Talkative, clever, and learned as well; 

The boy his society used to prize, 

Hearing with pleasure his wonders and 
lies. 

“My friend, the fox, my pigeon must see!” 

He ran, and stretched ’mongst the bushes 
lay he. 

“Look, fox, at my pigeon, my pigeon so 
fair! 

His equal I’in sure thou hast looked upon 
ne’er.” 

“Let’s see !” The boy gave it—“ ’Tis 
really not bad; 

And yet, it is far from complete, I must 
add, 

The feathers, for instance, how short! 
’Tis absurd!” 

So he set to work straightway to pluck 
the poor bird. 

The boy screamed,—“Thou must now 
stronger pinions supply, 

Or else ’twill be ugly, unable to fly,”— 

Soon ’twas stripped—oh, the villain!— 
and torn all to pieces, 

The boy was heartbroken,—and so my 
tale ceases. 

******* 

He who sees in the boy shadowed forth 
his own case, 

Should be on his guard ’gainst the fox’s 
whole race. 







POEMS FOR BOYHOOD. 


201 



TIRED OF PLA V 

N. P. WILLIS. 

Tired of play! tired of play! 

"What hast thou done this livelong day; 
The birds are hushed and so is the bee, 
The sun is creeping up steeple and tree, 
The doves have flown to the sheltering 
eaves, 


And the nests are dark with the droop¬ 
ing leaves, 

Twilight gathers and day is done,— 
i How hast thou spent it, beautiful one? 
Playing? But what hast thou done 
beside, 

To tell thy mother at eventide ? 

What promise of morn is left unbroken ? 
What kind word to thy playmates spoken? 









202 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


"Whom hast thou pitied and whom for¬ 
given ? 

How with thy faults has duty striven ? 
What hast thou learned by field and hill ? 
By green wood-path and by singing rill ? 
There will come an eve to a longer day, 
That will find thee tired—but not of 
play! 

When thou wilt lean as thou leanest now, 
With drooping limbs and aching brow, 
And wish the shadows would faster creep, 
And long to go to thy quiet sleep. 

Well were it then if thy aching brow, 
Were as free from sin and shame as 
now,— 

Well for thee if thy lip could tell, 

A tale like this of a day spent well, 

If thine open hand hath relieved distress, 
If thy pity hath sprung to wretched¬ 
ness,— 

If thou hast forgiven the sore offense, 
And humbled thy heart with peni¬ 
tence,— 

If nature’s voices have spoken to thee, 
With their holy meanings eloquently— 
If every creature hath won thy love, 
From the creeping worm to the brood¬ 
ing dove; 

And never a sad, low-spoken word, 

Hath plead with thy human heart 
unheard— 

Then, when the nights steal on as now, 

It will bring relief to thine aching brow, 
And with joy and peace at the thought 
of rest, 

Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother’s 
breast. 


MOTHER'S ROOM. 

MAKY D. BKINE. 

I’m awfully sorry for poor Jack Roe; 
He’s the boy that lives with his aunt, 
you know, 

And he says his house is filled with gloom 
Because it has got no “mother’s room.” 
1 tell you what, it is fine enough 
To talk of “boudoirs” and such fancy stuff, 
But the room of rooms that seems best 
to me, 

The room where I’d always rather be, 

Is mother’s room, where a fellow can rest, 
And talk of things his heart loves best. 

What if I do get dirt about, 

And sometimes startle my aunt with a 
shout; 

It is mother’s room, and if she don’t mind, 
To the hints of others I’m always blind. 
Maybe I lose my things—what then ? 

In my mother’s room I find them again. 
And I’ve never denied that I litter the 
floor 

With marbles and tops and many things 
more; 

But I tell you, for boys with a tired head, 
It is jolly to rest it on mother’s bed. 

How, poor Jack Roe, when he visits me, 
I take him to mother’s room, you see, 
Because it’s the nicest place to go 
When a fellow’s spirits are getting low. 
And mother she’s always kind and sweet, 
And there’s always a smile poor Jack to 
greet. 

And somehow the sunbeams seem to glow 
More brightly in mother’s room, I know, 
Than anywhere else; and you’ll never 
find gloom, 

Or any old shadow in mother’s room. 






P/\RT FIVE. 
























IllliilOfa 






















































































































































































































































































































































































































































Miscellaneous Poerps. 

<J~ 


True poetry is but the rose 

That’s painted by sweet Fancy’s brush, 

As it adorns the branch of prose, 

And beautifies Thought’s thorny bush. 

Lee Fairchild. 


AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


Good people all, of every sort, 

Give ear unto ray song; 

And if you find it wondrous short,— 
It can not hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man, 

Of whom the world might say, 

That still a godly race he ran— 
Whene’er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes, 

The naked every day he clad— 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be, 

Both mongrel, pnppy, whelp, and 
hound, 

And curs of low degree- 


This dog and man at first were friends 
But when a pique began, 

The dog, to gain some private ends, 
Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring 
streets, 

The wondering neighbors ran, 

And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seem’d both sore and sad, 
To every Christian eye, 

An d while they swore the dog was mad, 
They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 

That showed the rogues they lied; 
The man recovered of the bite; 

The dog it was that died. 


207 







208 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


GOODT BLAKE AND HARRT 
GILL. 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

Oh ! what’s the matter ?—what’s the 
matter ? 

What is’t that ails young Harry Gill, 
That evermore his teeth they chatter ?— 
Chatter, chatter, chatter still! 

Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 

Good duffel gray, and flannel fine ; 

He has a blanket on his back, 

And coats enough to smother nine. 

In March, December and in July, 

’Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 

The neighbors tell, and tell you truly, 
His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 

At night, at morning, and at noon, 

’Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 

His teeth they chatter, chatter still! 

Young Harry was a lusty drover, 

And who so stout of limb as he ? 

His cheeks were red as ruddy clover; 

His voice was like the voice of three. 
Old Goody Blake was old and poor; 

Ill-fed she was, and thinly clad ; 

And any man who passed her door, 
Might see how poor a hut she had. 

All day she spun in her poor dwelling, 
And then her three hours work at 
night— 

Alas ! ’twas hardly worth the telling— 
It would not pay for candle-light. 
Remote from sheltering village green, 
On a hill’s northern side she dwelt, 
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean. 
And hoary dews are slow to melt. 


By the same fire to boil their pottage, 
Two poor old dames, as I have known, 

Will often live in one small cottage; 

But she—poor woman !—housed alone. 

’Twas well enough when summer came, 
The long, warm, lightsome summer 
day; 

Then at her door the canty dame 
Would sit, as any linnet gay. 

But when the ice our streams did fetter, 
Oh, then how her old bones would 
shake! 

You would have said, if you had met her, 
’Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. 

Her evenings then were dull and dead ; 
Sad case it was, as you may think, 

For very cold to go to bed, 

And then for cold not sleep a wink! 

Oh, joy for her! whene’er in winter 
The winds at night had made a rout, 

And scattered many a lusty splinter 
And many a rotten bough about. 

Yet never had she, well or sick, 

As every man who knew her says, 

A pile beforehand, turf or stick, 

Enough to warm her for three days. 

How, when the frost was past enduring, 
And made her poor old bones to ache, 

Could anything be more alluring 
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake ? 

And now and then, it must be said, 
When her old bones were cold and 
chill, 

She left her fire, or left her bed, 

To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


209 


Now, Harry he had long suspected 
This trespass of old G oody Blake, 

And vowed that she should be detected, 
And he on her would vengeance take. 

And oft from his warm fire he’d go, 

And to the fields his road would take ; 

And there at night, in frost and snow, 
He watched to seize old Goody Blake. 

And once, behind a rick of barley, 

Thus looking out did Harry stand; 

The moon was full, and shining clearly, 
And crisp with frost the stubble-land. 

He hears a noise !—he’s all awake !— 
Again !—on tiptoe down the hill 

He softly creeps. ’Tis Goody Blake ! 
She’s at the hedge of Harry Gill! 

Right glad was he when he beheld her ! 
Stick after stick did Goody pull ; 

He stood behind a bush of elder, 

Till she had filled her apron full. 

When with her load she turned about, 
The by-way back again to take, 

He started forward with a shout, 

And sprang upon poor Goody Blake ; 

And fiercely by the arm he took her, 
And by the arm he held her fast; 

And fiercely by the arm he shook her, 
And cried, “I’ve caught you, then, at 
last!’’ 

Then Goody, who had nothing said, 

Her bundle from her lap let fall; 

And kneeling on the sticks she prayed 
To God, who is the Judge of all. 


She prayed, her withered hand uprearing. 
While Harry held her by the arm— 
“God, who art never out of hearing, 

Oh, may he never more be warm !” 
The cold, cold moon above her head, 
Thus on her knees did Goody pray, 
Young Harry heard what she had said, 
And, icy cold, he turned away. 

He went complaining all the morrow, 
That he was cold and very chill : 

His face was gloom, his heart was sor¬ 
row— 

Alas ! that day for Harry Gill! 

That day he wore a riding coat, 

But not a whit the warmer he ; 
Another was on Thursday brought, 

And ere the Sabbath he had three. 
’Twas all in vain—a useless matter— 
And blankets were about him pinned; 
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 
Like a loose casement in the wind. 

And Harry’s flesh it fell away; 

And all wbo see him say, ’Tis plain 
That, live as long as live he may, 

He never will be warm again.” 

No word to any man he utters, 

Abed or up, to young or old ; 

But ever to himself he mutters, 

“Poor Harry Gill is very cold !” 

Abed or up, by night or day, 

His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, 

Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill! 




210 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


THE BELLS. 

EDGAR A. POE. 

Hear the sledges with the bells— 
Silver bells! 

What a world of merriment their melody 
foretells! 

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night! 

While the stars that over-sprinkle 
All the heavens seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight; 
Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the tintinnabulation that so musically 
swells 

From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 

From the jingling and the tinkling of 
the bells. 

Hear the mellow wedding bells— 
Golden bells! 

What a world of happiness their har¬ 
mony foretells! 

Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight, 
From the molten, golden notes; 

And all in tune, 

What a liquid ditty boats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while 
she gloats 

On the moon! 

O, from out the sounding cells, 

What a gush of euphony voluminously 
wells! 

How it swells! 

How it dwells 
On the Future! How it tells 


Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells, 

To the rhyming and the chiming of the 
bells. 

Hear the loud alarum bells— 

Brazen bells! 

What a tale of terror, now, their tur- 
bulency tells! 

In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright! 
Too much horrified to speak, 

They can only shriek, shriek, 

Out of tune, 

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy 
of the fire, 

In a mad expostulation with the deaf 
and frantic fire 

Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire, 

And a resolute endeavor, 

Now—now to sit, or never, 

By the side of the pale-faced moon. 

O, the bells, bells, bells, 

What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair! 

How they clang and crash and roar! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
Yet the ear it fully knows, 

By the twanging, 

And the clanging, 

How the danger ebbs and flows; 

Yet the ear distinctly tells, 

In the jangling, 

And the wrangling, 

How the danger sinks and swells, 







211 





























































































MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


213 


Bj the sinking or the swelling in the 
anger of the bells— 

Of the bells— 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells— 

In the clamor and the clangor of the 
bells! 

Hear the tolling of the bells— 

Iron bells! 

What a world of solemn thought their 
monody compels! 

In the silence of the night, 

How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their 
tone! 

For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 
is a groan. 

Amd the people—ah, the people— 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 
All alone, 

And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone, 

Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone— 
They are neither man nor woman— 
They aremeither brute nor human— 
They are ghouls: 

And their king it is who tolls; 

And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 

Rolls, 

A paean from the bells! 

And his merry bosom swells 
With the paean of , the bells! 

And he dances and he yells; 
Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 


To the paean of the bells— 

Of the bells: 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the throbbing of the bells— 
Keeping time, time, time, 

As he kneels, kneels, kneels, 

In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells— 

Of the bells, bells, bells— 

To the tolling of the bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells— 
Bells, bells, bells— 

To the moaning and the groaning of the 
bells. 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 

Who taught the little ant the way 
Her narrow hole to bore, 

And spend the pleasant summer day 
In laying up her store ? 

The sparrow builds her skilful nest 
Of wool, and hay, and moss; 

Who told her how to weave it best 
And lay the twigs across ? 

Who taught the busy bee to fly 
Among the sweetest flowers, 

And lay his store of honey by 
To eat in winter hours ? 

’Twas God who showed them all the 
way 

And gave their little skill, 

And teaches children if they pray 
To do His Holy Will. 






By the Grassy-Fringed River.’ 




























POEMS FOR BOYHOOD. 


215 


SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS. 

GEORGE DARLEY. 

Up the dale and down the bourn, 

O’er the meadow swift we fly ; 

Now we sing, and now we mourn, 
Now we whistle, now we sigh. 

By the grassy-fringed river 

Through the murmuring reeds we 
sweep; 

’Mid the lily-leaves we quiver, 

To their very hearts we creep. 

Now the maiden rose is blushing 
At the frolic things we say; 

While aside her cheek we’re rushing 
Like some truant bees at play. 

Down the glen, across the mountain, 
O’er the yellow heath we roam, 

Whirling round about the fountain, 
Till its little breakers foam. 

Bending down the weeping willows, 
While our vesper hymn we sigh; 

Then unto our rosy pillows, 

On our rosy wings we hie. 

There of idlenesses dreaming, 

Scarce from waking we refrain, 

Moments long as ages deeming 
Till we’re at our play again. 


THE SONG OF THE WIND. 

I’ve a great deal to do, a great deal to do; 

Don’t speak to me, children, I pray. 
These little boys’ hats must be blown off 
their heads, 

And the little girls’ bonnets away. 


There’s a great deal of dust to be blows 
in the air, 

To trouble the travelers’ eyes; 

Those fruit stalls and stands to be blown 
to the ground, 

And this tart-woman’s puddings and 
pies. 

The rich nabob’s cloak must have a good 
shake, 

Though he does hold his head pretty 
high; 

And I must not slight Betty, who washes 
so nice 

And has just hung her clothes out to dry. 

Then there are signs to be creaked and 
doors to be slammed, 

Loose window blinds, too, to be 
shaken. 

When you know all the business I must 
do to-day 

You will see how much trouble I’ve 
taken. 

I saw some ships leaving the harbor to¬ 
day, 

So I’ll e’en go and help them along, 

And flap the white sails and howl 
through the shrouds, 

And join in the sailor-boy’s song. 

Then I’ll mount to the clouds, and away 
they will sail 

On their gorgeous wings through the 
bright sky. 

I bow to no mandate save only to Him 

Who reigneth in glory on high. 





216 


ROYAL ECHOES. 



JACK IN THE PULPIT. 

J. G. WHITTIER. 

Under the green trees 
Just over the way 
Jack-in-the-pulpit 
Preaches to-day; 

Squirrel and song-sparrow, 

High on their perch, 

Hear the sweet lily-bells 
Ringing to church. 

Come, hear what his reverence 
Rises to say 


In his queer little pulpit 
This fine Sabbath day. 
Fair is the canopy 
Over him seen, 

Painted by Nature’s hand 
Black, brown, and green, 
Green is his surplice 
Green are his hands ; 

In his queer little pulpit 
The little priest stands. 


In black and gold velvet, 
So gorgeous to see 
Comes with his bass voice 
The chorister bee. 
Green fingers playing 
Unseen on wind lyres, 
Bird-voices singing 
These are his choirs. 
The violets are deacons, 

I know by this sign, 
The cups that they carry, 
Are purple with wine. 
The columbines bravely 
As sentinels stand 
On the lookout, with 

All their red trumpets in hand 


Meek-faced anemones, 
Drooping and sad ; 
Great, yellow violets, 
Smiling out glad; 
Buttercups’ faces 

Beaming and bright; 
Clovers with bonnets, 
Some red, some white; 
Daisies, their fingers 
Half-clasped in prayer; 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


217 


Dandelions, proud of 
The gold of their hair ; 

Innocents, children, 

Guileless and frail, 

Their meek little faces 
Upturned and pale; 

Wild-wood geraniums, 

All in their best, 

Languidly leaning 

In purple gauze dressed : 

All are assembled, 

This sweet Sabbath day, 

To hear what the priest 
In his pulpit will say. 

Lo, white Indian pipes 
On the green mosses lie; 

Who has been smoking 
Profanely, so nigh ? 

Rebuked by the preacher 
The mischief is stopped, 

But the sinners in haste 

Have their little pipes dropped; 
Let the wind with the fragrance 
Of fern and black birch, 

Blow the smell of the smoking 
Clear out of the church. 

So much for the preacher, 

The sermon comes next; 

Shall we tell how he preached it, 
And where was the text ? 

Alas, like too many 
Grown-up folks who worship 

In churches man-builded, to-day, 
We heard not the preacher 
Expound or discuss; 

We looked at the people, 

And they looked at us ; 


We saw all their dresses, 

Their colors and shapes, 

The trim of their bonnets, 

The cut of their capes; 

We heard the wind-organ, 

The bee and the bird; 

But of Jack-in-tlie-Pulpit 
We heard not a word. 

NINE COMMANDMENTS. 

If you’ve any task to do, 

Let me whisper to you, 

Do it. 

If you’ve anything to say, 

True and needed, yea or nay, 

Say it. 

If you’ve anything to love, 

As a blessing from above, 

love it. 

If you’ve anything to give, 

That another’s joy may live, 

Give it. 

If you know what torch to light, 
Guiding others through the night, 

Light it 

If you’ve any debt to pay, 

Rest you neither night or day, 

Pay it. 

If you’ve any grief to meet, 

At the loving father’s feet, 

Meet it. 

If you’re given light to see 
What a child of God should be, 

See it. 

Whether life is bright or drear, 
There’s a message sweet and clear, 
Whispered down to every ear, 

Hear it. 






218 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


BISHOP HATTO. 

ROBERT SOUTHEY. 

The Slimmer and autumn had been so 
wet, 

That in winter the corn was growing yet. 
’Twas a piteous sight to see all around, 
The grain lie rotting on the ground. 
Every day the starving poor 
Crowded around Bishop Hatto’s door, 
For he had a plentiful last year’s store ; 
And all the neighborhood could tell 
His granaries were furnished well. 

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day 
To quiet the poor without delay ; 

He bade them to his great barn repair. 
And they should have food for the winter 
there. 

Rejoiced the tidings good to hear, 

The poor folk flocked from far and near; 
The great barn was full as it could hold 
Of women and children and young and 
old. 

Then, when he saw it could hold no more, 
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door, 

And while for mercy on Christ they call, 
He set fire to the barn and burned them 
all. 

“In faith, ’tis an excellent bonfire,” quoth 
he, 

“And the country is greatly obliged to 
me, 

For ridding it, in these times forlorn, 

Of rats that only consume the corn.” 

So then to his palace returned he, 

And he sat down to supper merrily, 

And he slept that night like an innocent 
man, 

But Bishop Hatto never slept again. 


In the morning, as he entered the hall, 
Where his picture hung against the wall, 
A sweat like death all over him came, 
For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. 

As he looked there came a man from his 
farm— 

He had a countenance white with alarm ; 
“My lord, I opened your granaries this 
morn, 

And the rats had eaten all your corn.” 
Another came running presently, 

And he was pale as pale could be. 

“Fly ! my lord bishop, fly !” quoth he, 
“Ten thousand rats are coming this way, 
The Lord forgive you for yesterday!” 
“I’ll go to my tower on the Rhine,” re¬ 
plied he, 

“ ’Tis the safest place in Germany; 

The walls are high and the shores are 
steep, 

And the stream is strong and the water 
deep.” 

Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, 
And he crossed the Rhine without delay, 
And reached his tower, and barred with 
care 

All the windows, doors, and loop-holes 
there. 

He laid him down and closed his eyes, 
But soon a scream made him arise; 

He started, and saw two eyes of flame 
On his pillow, from whence the scream¬ 
ing came. 

He listened and looked ; it was only the 
cat; 

But the Bishop he grew more fearful for 
that, 




















■ 












































































220 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


For she sat screaming, mad with fear, 

At the army of rats that were drawing 
near. 

For they have swnm over the river so 
deep, 

And they have climbed the shores so steep, 
And up the tower their way is bent 
To do the work for which they were sent. 

They are not to be told by the dozen or 
score; 

By thousands they come and by myriads 
and more; 

Such numbers had never been heard of 
before, 

Sncn a judgment had never been wit¬ 
nessed of yore. 

Down on his knees the bishop fell, 

And faster and faster his beads did he tell, 
As, louder and louder, drawing near, 

The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. 

And in at the windows, and in at the door, 
And through the walls helter-skelter they 
pour, 

And down from the ceiling and up 
through the floor, 

From the right and the left, from behind 
and before. 

From within and without, from above 
and below, 

And all at once to the bishop they go. 
They have whetted their teeth against 
the stones, 

And now they pick the bishop’s bones; 
They gnawed the flesh from every limb, 
For they were sent to do judgment on 
him. 


THE STARS AND FLOWERS. 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

When Eve had led her Lord away, 

And Cain had killed his brother, 

The stars and flowers, the poets say, 
Agreed with one another 

To cheat the cunning tempter’s art, 

And teach the race its duty, 

By keeping on its wicked heart 
Their eyes of light and beauty. 

A million sleepless lids, they say, 

Will be at least a warning; 

And so the flowers would watch by day, 
The stars from eve to morning. 

On hill and prairie, field and lawn, 

Their dewy eyes upturning, 

The flowers still watch from reddening 
dawn 

Till western skies are burning. 

Alas! each hour of daylight tells 
A tale of shame so crushing, 

That some turn pale as sea-bleached shells, 
And some are always blushing. 

But when the patient stars look down 
On all their light discovers, 

The traitor’s smile, the murderer’s frown, 
The lips of lying lovers; 

They try to shut their saddening eyes, 
And in the vain endeavor 
We see them twinkling in the skies, 
And so they wink forever. 

So nigh is grandeur to our dust, 

So near is God to man, 

| When Duty whispers low, Thou must, 
The youth replies, I can. 


— Emerson. 




















































































MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


223 


THE PIED PIPER OF NAME- 
LIN. 

ROBERT BROWNING. 

Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick, 

By famous Hanover City ; 

The river Weser, deep and wide, 

Washes its wall on the southern side ; 

A pleasanter spot you never spied • 

But, when begins my ditty ? 

Almost five hundred years ago, 

To see the townsfolk suffer so 
From vermin was a pity. 

Rats! 

They fought the dogs and killed the cats, 
And bit the babies in the cradle, 

And ate the cheeses out of the vats, 

And licked the soup from the cook’s 
own ladles; 

Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 
Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats, 
And even spoiled the women’s chats 
By drowning their speaking 
With shrieking and squeaking 
In fifty different sharps and flats. 

At last the people, in a body, 

To the Town Hall came flocking: 

“ ’Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor’s a 
noddy, 

And as for our Corporation—shocking 
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 
For dolts that can’t or won’t determine 
What’s best to rid us of our vermin ! 
You hope, because you are old and obese, 
To find in the furry civic robe ease. 
Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a rack¬ 
ing 

To find the remedy we’re lacking, 

Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!” 


At this the Mayor and Corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation. 

An hour they sate in counsel; 

At length the Mayor broke silence: 
“For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell; 

I wish I were a mile hence ! 

It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain— 
I’m sure my poor head aches again, 

I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain. 

Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!” 

Just as he said this what should hap 
At the chamber-door but a gentle tap! 
“Bless us!” cried the Mayor, “what’s 
that ?” 

(With the Corporation as he sat, 

Looking little though wondrous fat; 

N or brighter was his eye, nor moister 
Than a too-long-opened oyster; 

Save when at noon his paunch grew 
mutinous 

For a plate of turtle, green and glutinous.) 
“Only a scraping of shoes on the mat ? 
Anything like the sound of a rat 
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat! 

“Come in!” the Mayor cried, looking 
bigger, 

And in did come the strangest figure ! 
His queer long coat from heel to head 
Was half of yellow and half of red ; 

And he himself was tall and thin, 

With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 
And light, loose hair, yet swarthy skin, 
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, 

But lips where smiles went out and in— 
There was no guessing his kith and kin ! 
And nobody could enough admire 
The tall man and his quaint attire. 

Quoth one, “It’s as my great-grand-sire, 





224 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Starting np at the Trump of Doom’s 
tone, 

Had walked this way from his painted 
tombstone!” 

He advanced to the council table, 

And, “Please your honors,” said he, “I’m 
able, 

By means of secret charm, to draw 
All creatures living beneath the sun, 
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, 

After me so as you never saw! 

And I chiefly use my charm 
On creatures that do people harm : 

The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper; 
And people call me the Pied Piper.” 
(And here, they noticed round his neck 
A scarf of red and yellow stripe, 

To match with his coat of the self-same 
check ; 

And at the scarfs end hung a pipe. 
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever 
straying 

As if impatient to be playing 
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 
Over his vesture so old-fangled.) 

“Yet,” said he, “poor piper as I am, 

In Tartary I freed the Cham, 

Last June, from his huge swarm of 
gnats; 

I eased in Asia the Nizam 

Of a monstrous brood of vampire bats; 
And, as for what your brain bewilders— 
If I can rid your town of rats 
Will you give me a thousand guilders ?” 
“One ? fifty thousand !” was the exclam¬ 
ation 

Of the astonished Mayor and Corpora¬ 
tion. 


Into the street the piper stept, 

Smiling first a little smile, 

As if he knew what magic slept 
In his quiet pipe the while; 

Then like a musical adept 
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, 
And green and blue his sharp eyes 
twinkled 

Like a candle-flame where salt is 
sprinkled ; 

And ere three shrill notes the pipe 
uttered, 

You heard as if an army muttered ; 

And the muttering grew to a grumbling 
And the grumbling grew to a mighty 
rumbling; 

And out of the houses the rats came 
tumbling. 

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny 
rats, 

Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny 
rats; 

Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, 
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, 
Families by tens and dozens, 

Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives— 
Followed the piper for their lives. 

From street to street he piped advancing 
And step for step they followed dancing, 
Until they came to the river Weser, 
Wherein all plunged and perished 
Save one, who, stout as Julius Csesar, 
Swam across and lived to carry 
(As the manuscript he cherished) 

To Rat-land home his commentary, 
Which was, “At the first shrill notes of 
the pipe, 
































226 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 

And putting apples wondrous ripe 
Into a cider-press’s gripe; 

And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, 
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cup 
boards, 

And a drawing the corks of train-oil 
flasks, 

And a breaking the hoops off butter casks; 
And it seemed as if a voice 
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 
is breathed) called out, ‘O rats, rejoice ! 
The world is grown to one vast dry¬ 
saltery ! 

So munch on, crunch on, take your 
muncheon, 

Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon !’ 
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, 

All ready staved, like a great sun, shone 
Glorious scarce an inch before me, 

Just as methought it said, ‘ Come bore 
me,’ 

I found the Weser rolling o’er me!” 

You should have heard the Hamelin 
people 

Ringing the bells till they rocked the 
steeple; 

“ Go,” cried the Mayor, “and get long 
poles! 

Poke out the nests and block up the 
holes! 

Consult with carpenters and builders, 
And leave in our town not even a trace 
Of the rats!”—when suddenly, up the 
face 

Of the piper perked in the market place 
With a “First, if you please, my thousand 
guilders!” 


A thousand guilders! the Mayor looked 
blue, 

So did the Corporation too. 

For council dinners made rare havoc 
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de Grave, 
Hock; 

And half the money would replenish 
Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish; 
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow, 
With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! 
“Beside,” quoth the Mayor, with a know¬ 
ing wink, 

“Our business was done at the river’s 
brink; 

We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 
And what’s dead can’t come to life, I 
think; 

So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink 
From the duty of giving you something 
for drink, 

And a matter of money to put in your 
poke; 

But, as for the guilders, what we spoke 
Of them, as you very well know, was in 
a joke. 

Beside, our losses have made us thrifty; 
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty !” 

The pipers face fell, and he cried, 

“No trifling! I can’t wait! beside 
I promised to visit by dinner-time 
Bagdad, and accept the prime 
Of the head-cook’s pottage, all he’s rich 
in, 

For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen, 
Of a nest of scorpions, no survivor— 
With him I proved no bargain-driver, 
With you don’t think I’ll bate a stiver! 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


227 


And folks who put me in a passion 
May find me pipe to another fashion*.” 
“How!” cried the Mayor, “d’ye think 
Til brook 

Being worse treated than a cook ? 

Insulted by a lazy ribald 

With idle pipe and vesture piebald! 

Yop threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst; 
Blow your pipe there till you burst!” 
Once more he stept into the street, 

And to his lips again 
Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight 
cane ; 

And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 
Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning 
Never gave the enraptured air), 

There was a rustling, that seemed like a 
bustling, 

Of merry crowds justling at pitching and 
hustling, 

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes 
clattering, 

Little hands clapping, and little tongues 
chattering, 

And, like fowls in a farmyard when bar¬ 
ley is scattering, 

Out came the children running. 

All the little boys and girls, 

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, 

An d sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, 
Tripping and skipping ran merrily after 
The wonderful music with shouting and 
laughter. 

The Mayor was dumb and the Council 
stood 

As if they were changed into blocks of 
wood, 

Unable to move a step or to cry 


To the children merrily skipping by ; 
And could only follow with the eye 
That joyous crowd at the piper’s back. 
But how the Mayor was on the rack, 
And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat, 
As the piper turned from the High street 
To where the Weser rolled its waters 
Bight in the wav of their sons and 
daughters! 

However, he turned from south to west, 
And to Koppleberg hill his steps ad¬ 
dressed, 

And after him the children pressed; 
Great was the joy in every breast. 

“He never can cross that mighty top ! 
He’s forced to let the piping drop, 

And we-shall see our children stop !” 
When, lo! as they reached the mountain’s 
side, 

A wondrous portal opened wide, 

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; 
And the piper advanced and the children 
followed, 

And when all were in, to the very last, 
The door in the mountain side shut fast. 
Did I say all ? No! one was lame, 

And could not dance the whole of the 
way, 

And in after years, if you would blame 
His sadness, he was used to say, 

“It’s dull in our town since my playmates 
left! 

I can’t forget that I’m bereft 
Of all the pleasant sights they see, 

Which the piper also promised me ; 

For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 
Joining the town and just at hand, 
Where waters gushed and fruit trees 
grew, 





228 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


And flowers put forth a fairer hue, 

And everything was strange and new; 
The sparrows were brighter than pea¬ 
cocks here, 

And their dogs outran our fallow deer, 
And honey-bees had lost their stings, 
And horses were born with eagle’s wings ; 
And just as I became assured 
My lame foot would be speedily cured, 
The music stopped and I stood still, 

And found myself outside the hill, 

Left alone against my will, 

To go now limping as before, 

And never hear of that country more !” 

Alas, alas for Hamel in ! 

There came into many a burgher’s pate 
A text which says that Heaven’s Gate 
Opes to the rich at as easy rate 
As the needle’s eye takes a camel in ! 

The Mayor sent east, west, north and 
south 

To offer the piper by wor 's of mouth, 
Wherever it was men’s lot to find him, 
Silver and gold to his heart’s content, 

If he’d only return the way he went 
And bring the children behind him. 

But when they saw it was a lost endeavor, 
And piper and dancers were gone for¬ 
ever, 

They made a decree that lawyers never 
Should think their records dated duly, 

If, after the day of the month and year, 
These words did not as well appear: 
‘‘And so long after what happened here 


On the twenty-second of July, 

Thirteen hundred and seventy-six;” 

And the better in memory to fix 
The place of the children’s last retreat, 
They called it the Pied Piper’s street, 
Where anyone playing on pipe or tabor, 
Was sure for the future to lose his labor; 
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern 
To shock with mirth a street so 
solemn, 

But opposite the place of the cavern 
They wrote the story on a column, 
And on the great church window painted 
The same, to make the world acquainted 
How their children were stolen away, 
And there it stands to this very day. 

And I must not omit to say 
That in Transylvania there’s a tribe 
Of alien people that ascribe 
The outlandish ways and dress 
On which their neighbors lay such stress 
To their fathers and mothers having 
risen 

Out of some subterranean prison, 

Into which they were trepanned 
Long time ago in a mighty band 
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick lard, 
Bat how or why, they don’t understand. 
So Willy, let you and me be wipers 
Of scores out with all men—especially 
pipers; 

And whether they pipe us free from rats 
or from mice, 

If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep 
our promise. 





MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 


229 



ROBERT BRUCE AND THE SPIDER. 

ELIZA COOK. 

King Brnce, of Scotland, flung himself 
down, 

In a lonely mood to think; 

’Tis true he was monarch, and wore a 
crown, 

Bat his heart was beginning to sink. 


He flung himself into a deep despair; 

He was grieved as man could be; 

And after a while as he pondered there, 
“I’ll give it up!” cried he. 


For he had been trying to do a great 
deed, 

To make his people glad; 

He had tried and tried, but could not 
succeed, 

And so he became quite sad. 


Now, just at that moment a spider 
dropped 

With its silken cobweb clew, 

And the king, in the midst of his think¬ 
ing, stopped 

To see what the spider would do. 










































230 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


’Twas a long way up to the ceiling 
dome, 

And it hung by a rope so fine, 

That how it would get to its cobweb 
home 

King Bruce could not divine. 

It soon began to cling and crawl 
Straight up with strong endeavor; 

But down it came with a slipping sprawl, 
As near the ground as ever. 

Up, up it ran, nor a second did stay, 

To make the least complaint, 

’Till it fell still lower; and there it lay 
A little dizzy and faint. 

Its head grew steady—again it went, 
And traveled a half-yard higher, 

’Twas a delicate thread it had to tread, 
And a road where its feet would tire. 

Again it fell and swung below; 

But up it quickly mounted, 

’Till up and down, now fast, now slow, 
Nine brave attempts were counted. 

“Sure,” said the king, “that foolish thing 
Will strive no more to climb; 

When it toils so hard to reach and cling, 
And tumbles every time.” 

But up the insect went once more; 

Ah me! ’tie an anxious minute; 

He’s only a foot from his cobweb door— 
Oh, say! will he lose or win it? 

Steadily, steadily, inch by inch, 

Higher and higher he got, 

And a bold little run, at the very last 
pinch, 

Put him into the wished-for spot. 

$ 


“Bravo! bravo!” the king cried out, 

“All honor to those who try! 

The spider up there defied despair; 

He conquered, and why should not I?” 

Thus Bruce of Scotland braced his mind, 
And gossips tell the tale, 

That he tried once more, as he tried 
before, 

And that time did not fail. 

Pay goodly heed, all you who read, 

And beware of saying, “I can’t;” 

’Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead 
To idleness, folly and want. 


WHO PA YS THE BIRDS ? 

LINA EVANS. 

You pay for the organ, pay for the flute, 

Pay for the drum that gives the salute ; 

Pay for the harp with its sweet notes of 
love, 

Pay for the music that raiseth above ; 

Pay for the concert, with soft, flowing 
words, 

But who ever thought of paying the birds? 

Some even grudge them a kernel of 
grain, 

Grudge them the berries that grow on 
the plain, 

Grudge them the meal their father hath 
made, 

But who, in the spring, ever grudged 
their aid ? 

Surely, ah, surely, you cannot have 
thought 

Of songs they have sung and good they 
have wrought. 























































































































































































232 


ROYAL ECHOES, 



Fret Not to Roam the Desert Now.” 


THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED. 

MRS. C. E. NORTON. 


My beautiful! my beautiful! that stand- 
est meekly by, 

With thy proudly arched and glossy 
neck and dark and fiery eye, 

Fret not to roam the desert now, with 
all thy winged speed; 

I may not mount on thee again—thou’rt 
sold, my Arab steed! 


Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff 
not the breezy wind, 

The farther that thou fliest now, so far 
am I behind; 

The stranger hath thy bridle-rein—thy 
master hath his gold, 

Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell; 
thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold. 




































MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


233 


Farewell! those free, nntired limbs full 
many a mile must roam 
To reach the chill and wintry sky which 
clouds the stranger’s home ; 

Some other hand, less fond, must now 
thy corn and bed prepare, 

Thy silky mane I braided once, must be 
another’s care! 

The morning sun shall dawn.again, but 
nevermore with thee 
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, 
where we were wont to be. 
Evening shall darken on the earth, and 
o’er the sandy plain 
Some other steed, with slower step, shall 
bear me home again. 

Yes, thou must go! the wild, free 
breeze, the brilliant sun and sky, 
Thy master’s house,—from all of these 
my exiled one must fly; 

Thy proud dark eye will grow less 
proud, thy step become less fleet, 
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, 
thy master’s hand to meet; 

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark 
eye, glancing bright;— 

Only in sleep shall hear again that step 
so firm and light ; 

And when I raise my dreaming arm 
to check or cheer thy speed, 
Then must I, starting, wake to feel,— 
thou’rt sold , my Arab steed. 

Ah, rudely, then, unseen by me some 
cruel hand may chide, 

Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, 
along thy panting side, 


And the rich blood that’s in thee, swells 
in thy indignant pain, 

Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, 
may count each starting vein. 

Will they ill-use thee ? If I thought— 
but no, it can not be,— 

Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so 
gentle, yet so free; 

And yet, if haply, when thou’rt gone, 
my lonely heart should yearn,— 

Can the hand which casts thee from it 
now, command thee to return ? 

Return ! alas ! my Arab steed ! what 
shall thy master do, 

When thou, who wast his all of joy, 
hast vanished from his view ? 

When the dim distance cheats mine 
eye, and through the gathering 
tears 

Thy bright form, for a moment, like 
the false mirage appears; 

Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with 
weary step alone, 

Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, 
thou oft hast borne me on! 

And sitting down by that green well, 
I’ll pause and sadly think, 

“ It was here he bowed his glossy neck 
when last I saw him drink!” 

When last I saw thee drinlc ! —Away ! 
the fevered dream is o’er,— 

I could not live a day, and know that 
we should meet no more ! 

They tempted me, my beautiful!—for 
hunger’s power is strong; 

They tempted me, my beautiful! but 
I have loved too long. 





234 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Who said that I had given thee up? 
who said that thou wast sold ? 

’Tis false,—’tis false, my Arab steed! I 
fling them back their gold! 

Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and 
scour the distant plains; 

Away! who overtakes us now shall 
claim thee for his pains ! 

THE BROOK. 

ALFRED TENNYSON f 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally, 

And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges, 

By twenty thorps, a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip’s farm I flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles ; 

I babble into eddying bays, 

I bubble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow, weeds and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 

With here a blossom sailing, 


And here and there a lusty trout, 

And here and there a grayling. 

And here and there a foamy flake 
Upon me, as I travel, 

With many a silvery water-break 
Above the golden gravel. 

T steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers; 

I move the sweet for-get-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance 
Among my skimming swallows ; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 
In brambly wildernesses; 

I linger by my shingly bars, 

I loiter ’round my cresses ; 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come, and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

HO W DID THE LORD KEEP EASTER ? 

MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY. 

How did the Lord keep Easter? With 
His own! 

Back to meet Mary, where she grieved 
alone— 

And I do think, as he came back to her, 

The many mansions may be all astir 

W ith tender steps, that hasten in the way, 

Seeking their own upon this Easter day. 

Parting the vail that hideth them about, 

I think they do come, softly, wistful, out 

From homes of Heaven, that only seem 
so far, 

And walk in gardens where the new 
tombs are. 












» 




“And Here axd There a Lusty Trout, 
And Here and There a Grayling.” 



































































































































MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


237 



THE COW AND THE 
ASS. 

Hard by a green meadow a 
stream used to flow, 

So clear one might see the 
white pebbles below; 
To this cooling stream the 
warm cattle would stray, 
To stand in the shade on a 
hot summer’s day. 


A cow, quite oppressed with 
the heat of the sun, 
Came here to refresh, as she 
often had done; 

And standing stock still, 
leaning over the stream, 
Was musing, perhaps, or per¬ 
haps she might dream. 


But soon a brown ass, of re¬ 
spectable look, 

Came trotting up also to 
taste of the brook, 

And to nibble a few of the 
daisies and grass: 

“ How d’ye do ? ” said the 
cow. “ How d’ye do ?” 
said the ass. “ But, Ma’am,” said the Ass, “ Not Presuming to Teach —t 


“ Take a seat,” cried the cow, gently wav¬ 
ing her hand. 

“ By no means, dear madam,” said he, 
“while you stand.” 

Then stooping to drink, with a com¬ 
plaisant bow, 


“ Ma’am, your health,” said the ass. 
“ Thank you, sir,” said the cow. 

When a few of these compliments more 
had been past, 

They laid themselves down on the her¬ 
bage at last, 









238 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


And waiting politely, as gentlemen 
must, 

The ass held his tongue, that the cow 
might speak first. 

Then with a deep sigh, she directly be¬ 
gan,— 

“ Don’t you think, Mr. Ass, we are in¬ 
jured by man ? 

’Tis a subject that lays with a weight on 
my mind: 

We certainly are much oppressed by 
mankind. 

“ Now what is the reason—I see none at 
all— 

That I always must go when Suke 
chooses to call ? 

Whatever I’m doing, ’tis certainly hard, 

At once I must go to be milked in the 
yard. 

‘'I’ve no will of my own, but must do as 
they please, 

And give them my milk to make butter 
and cheese ; 

I’ve often a vast mind to knock down the 
pail, 

Or give Suke a box of the ears with my 
tail.” 

“ But ma’am,” said the ass, “ not pre¬ 
suming to teach— 

O dear, I beg pardon,—pray finish your 
speech; 

I thought you had done, ma’am, indeed,” 
said the swain, 

“ Go on, and I’ll not interrupt you 
again.” 

“ Why, sir, I was only going to observe, 


I’m resolved that these tyrants no longer 
I’ll serve ; 

But leave them forever to do as they 
please, 

And look somewhere else for their butter 
and cheese. • 

Ass waited a moment, to see if she’d done, 

And then, “Not presuming to teach”— 
he begun— 

“ With submission, dear madam, to your 
better wit, 

I own I am not quite convinced by it yet. 

“ That you’re of great service to them is 
quite true, 

But surely they are of some service to 
you ; 

’Tis their nice green meadows in which 
you regale, 

They feed you in winter when grass and 
weeds fail. 

“ ’Tis under their shelter you snugly re¬ 
pose, 

When without it, dear ma’am, you per¬ 
haps might be froze; 

For my own part, I know I receive much 
from man, 

And for him, in return, I’ll do all that I 
can.” 

The cow upon this cast her eyes on the 
grass, 

Not pleased at thus being reproved by 
an ass ; 

Yet, thought she, I’m determined I’ll 
benefit by’t, 

For 1 really believe that the fellow is 
right. 





MISCELLANEOUS POENU. 


239 


ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY 
CHURCH-YARD. 

THOMAS GRAY. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting 
day, 

The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the 
lea; 

The plowman homeward plods his weary 
way. 

And leaves the world to darkness and 
to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on 
the sight, 

And all the air a solemn stilllness 
holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning 
flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant 
fold; 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled 
tower, 

The moping owl does to the moon 
complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret 
bower, 

Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew- 
tree’s shade, 

Where heaves the turf in many a 
moldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet 
sleep. 

The' breezy call of incense-breathing 
morn, 


The swallow twittering from the straw- 
built shed, 

The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing 
horn, 

No more shall rouse them from their 
lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth 
shall burn, 

Or busy housewife ply her evening 
care; 

No children ran to lisp their sire’s 
return, 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to 
share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe 
has broke. 

How iocund did they drive their team 
afield! 

How bowed the woods beneath their 
sturdy stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful 
smile 

The short and simple annals of the 
poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of 
power, 

And all that beauty, all that wealth 
e’er gave, 

Await alike th’ inevitable hour, 

The paths of glory lead but to the 
grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the 
fault, 





240 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies 
raise; 

Where, through the long-drawn aisle and 
fretted vault, 

The pealing anthem swells the note of 
praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting 
breath ? 

Can Honor’s voice provoke the silent 
dust ? 

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear 
of Death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celes¬ 
tial fire; 

Hands that the rod of empire might 
have swayed, 

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample 
page, 

Rich with the spoils of time, did 
ne’er unroll; 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage ? 

And froze the genial current of the 
soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean 
bear; 

Full many a flower is born to blush 
unseen, 

And waste its sweetness on the desert 
air. 

Some village Hampden, that with daunt¬ 
less breast 


The little tyrant of his fields with¬ 
stood, 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may 
rest, 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his coun¬ 
try’s blood. 

Th’ applause of listening senates to com¬ 
mand, 

The threats of pain and ruin to de¬ 
spise, 

To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation’s 
eyes, 

Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed 
alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes 
confined; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a 
throne, 

And shut the gates of mercy on man¬ 
kind, 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth 
to hide, 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous 
shame, 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 

With incense kindled at the Muse’s 
flame. 

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble 
strife, 

Their sober wishes never learned to 
stray; 

Along the cool sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their 
way. 







































































































MISCELLANEOUS POEM<L 


243 


Yet even these bones from insult to 
protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless 
sculpture decked, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th’ un¬ 
lettered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply; 

And many a holy text around she 
strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 

This pleasing anxious being e’er re¬ 
signed, 

Left the warm precincts ot the cheerful 
day, 

Nor cast one longing, lingering look 
behind. 

On some fond breast the parting soul 
relies, 

Some pious drops the closing eye 
requires; 

Even from the tomb the voice of Nature 
cries, 

Even in our ashes live their wonted 
fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonored 
dead, 

Dost in these lines their artless tale 
relate, 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy 
fate. 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may 
say, 


“ Oft have we seen him at the peep of 
dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews 
away, 

To meet the sun upon the upland 
lawn. 

“ There, at the foot of yonder nodding 
beech, 

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so 
high, 

His listless length at noontide would he 
stretch, 

And pore upon the brook that babbles 
b 7* 

“ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in 
scorn, 

Muttering his wayward fancies, he 
would rove; 

Now drooping, woful-wan, like one 
forlorn, 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in 
hopeless love. 

“One morn I missed him on the ’cus- 
tomed hill, 

Al ong the heath, and near his favorite 
tree; 

Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was 
he. 

“ The next, with dirges due in sad array, 

Slow through the church-way path we 
saw him borne. 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) 
the lay 

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged 
thorn.” 




244 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of 
Earth 

A youth, to Fortune and to Fame un¬ 
known; 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble 
birth, 

And Melancholy marked him for her 
own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul 
sincere, 

Heaven did a recompense as largely 
send; 

He gave to Misery all he had—a tear; 

He gained from Heaven (’twas all he 
wished) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread 
abode 

(There they alike in trembling hope 
repose), 

The bosom of his Father and his God. 


INDIAN SUMMER. 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

From gold to gray 
One mild, sweet day 
Of Indian Summer fades too soon; 

But tenderly 
Above the sea 

Hangs white and calm the summer’s 
moon. 

In the pale fire, 

The village spire 

Shows like the zodiac’s spectral lance; 
The painted walls 
Whereon it falls 

Transfigured stand in marble trance! 


■SQUAW WINTER. 

H. A. SESSIONS. 

The pleasantest time of Autumn is the 
“Indian Summer.” Its beautiful dreamy days 
—a short return of summer-—are familiar to all; 
but the cold, stormy weather which unfailingly 
precedes it, and is fancifully termed Squaw 
Winter, has not been so generally noticed. 

When mother-earth brown-carpeted 
Doth bid adieu to Summer’s bloom, 
And trees their naked branches rear 
Toward changing sky, now glare, now 
gloom, 

A dark-faced couple, hand in hand, 

In northern climes is ever seen; 

A pair who never can agree. 

And yet are lovers true, I ween. 

The dusky bride impatient seems; 

Her face, o’ercast with stormy clouds, 
Is stern and cold, reminding us 

Of days when earth in snowy shrouds 
Lies dead to Spring’s sweet smiles and 
tears, 

Or Summer’s glorious gifts of love. 

She presses on. Her lingering mate, 
Whose face reflects the sun above, 
With richer dress and nobler mien 
Turns back to view the path of gold 
So pleasant and luxurious, 

So full of pleasures never old. 

Full conscious of unchanging praise, 
Right royal doth he e’er appear; 

But she who travels at his side 
Can ne’er restrain the falling tear. 

For she, unhonored and unsung, 

Will ne’er be worshipped, loved or 
crowned; 

Yet Indian Summer every year 

With his Squaw Winter comes around. 

































































































































































MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


247 



THE RA VEN. 

EDGAR ALLAN POE. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I 
pondered, weak and weary, 

Over many a quaint and curious volume 
of forgotten lore— 

While I nodded, nearly napping, sud¬ 
denly there came a tapping, 

As of some one gently rapping, rapping 
at my chamber door. 

“ ’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “ tap¬ 
ing at my chamber door— 

Only this, and nothing more.” 


Ah! distinctly I remember it was in the 
bleak December, 

And each separate dying ember wrought 
its ghost upon the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I 
had sought to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow—sor¬ 
row for the lost Lenore, 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom 
the angels name Lenore— 
Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of 
each purple curtain 








248 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic 
terrors never felt before; 

So that now, to still the beating of my 
heart, I stood repeating, 

“ ’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at 
my chamber door— 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at 
my chamber door; 

This it is, and nothing more.” 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesi¬ 
tating then no longer, 

“ Sir,” said I, “ or madam, truly your 
forgiveness I implore; 

But the fact is, I was napping, and so 
gently you came rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping, tap¬ 
ping at my chamber door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you ”— 
here I opened wide the door; 
Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I 
stood there, wondering, fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 
ever dared to dream before ; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the 
stillness gave no token, 

And the only word there spoken was the 
whispered word, “ Lenore! ” 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured 
back the word, “ Lenore! ” 
Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into my chamber turning, all my 
soul within me burning, 

Soon again I heard a tapping something 
louder than before. 

“ Surely,” said I, “ surely that is some¬ 
thing at my window lattice; 


Let me see, then, what thereat is, and 
this mystery explore— 

Let my heart be still a moment, and this 
mystery explore; 

’Tis the wind, and nothing more.” 

Open wide I flung the shutter, when, 
with many a flirt and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately Raven of the 
saintly days of yore. 

Not the least obeisance made he; not a 
minute stopped or staid he; 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched 
above my chamber door— 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just 
above my chamber door; 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad 
fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the 
countenance it wore, 

“ Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
thou,” I said, “ art sure no craven, 
Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wan¬ 
dering from the nightly shore— 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the 
night’s Plutonian shore?” 

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!” 

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to 
hear discourse so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning—little 
relevancy bore; 

For we can not help agreeing that no 
living human being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird 
above his chamber door— 





MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


249 


Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust 
above his chamber door, 

With such name as “ Nevermore.” 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that 
placid bust, spoke only 

That one word, as if his soul in that one 
word he did outpour. 

Nothing further then he uttered ; not a 
feather then he fluttered ; 

Till I scarcely more than muttered, 
“ Other friends have flown before; 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my 
hopes have flown before.” 

Then the bird said, “Nevermore.” 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply 
so aptly spoken, 

“ Doubtless,” said I, “ what it utters is 
its only stock and store, 

Caught from some unhappy master whom 
unmerciful disaster 

Followed fast and followed faster, till his 
songs one burden bore— 

Till the dirges of his hope that melan¬ 
choly burden bore, 

Of £ Never—nevermore.’ ” 

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad 
soul into smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in 
front of bird and bust and dooi ■ 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook 
myself to linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this 
ominous bird of yore— 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, 
and ominous bird of yore 
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.” 

13 


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no 
syllable expressing 

To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now 
burned into my bosom’s core; 

This, and more, I sat divining, with my 
head at ease reclining 

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the 
lamp-light gloated o’er. 

But whose velvet violet lining with the 
lamp-light gloating o’er, 

She shall press, ah, nevermore! 

Then, methought the air grew denser 
perfumed from an unseen censer 

Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls 
tinkled on the tufted floor. 

“ Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent 
thee—by these angels he hath sent 
thee 

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy 
memories of Lenore! 

Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and 
forget this lost Lenore! ” 

Quoth the Raven, “ Nevermore! ” 

“ Prophet,” said I, “ thing of evil! pro¬ 
phet still, if bird or devil! 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether temp¬ 
est tossed thee here ashore, 

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this 
desert land enchanted— 

On this home by horror haunted ; tell me 
truly, I implore, 

Is there, is there balm in Gilead ? Tell 
me—tell me, I implore ? " 

Quoth the Raven, “ Nevermore!” 

“ Prophet,” said I, “ thing of evil! pro¬ 
phet still, if bird or devil 1 







250 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


By that heaven that bends above us— 
by that God we both adore— 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, with¬ 
in the distant Aiden, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the 
angels name Lenore, 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom 
the angels name Lenore ? ” 

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!” 

“ Be that word our sign of parting, bird 
or fiend ! ” I shrieked, upstarting ; 
“ Get thee back into the tempest and the 
night’s Plutonian shore! 

Leave no black plume as a token of that 
lie thy soul hath spoken ! 

Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the 
bust above my door ! 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and 
take tby form from off my door! ” 
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore! ” 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is 
sitting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above 
my chamber door; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a 
demon’s that is dreaming, 

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming 
throws his shadow on the floor ; 
And my soul from out that shadow that 
lies floating on the floor; 

Shall be lifted—Nevermore! 


The world is happy, the world is wide, 
Kind hearts are beating on every side. 

— Lowell . 


ONE DAY AT A TIME. 

HELEN HUNT JACKSON. 

One day at a time ! That’s all it can be; 

No faster than that is the hardest fate, 

And days have their limits, however we 

Begin them too early and stretch them 
too late. 

One day at a time! 

It’s a wholesome rhyme, 

A good one to live by, 

A day at a time. 

One day at a time! Every heart that 
aches, 

Knows only too well how long that 
can seem; 

But it’s never to-day which the spirit 
breaks; 

Its the darkened future, without a 
gleam. 

One day at a time! 

It’s a wholesome rhyme, 

A good one to live by, 

A day at a time. 

One day at a time! A burden too great 

To be borne for two can be borne for 
one; 

Who knows what will enter to-morrow’s 
gate? 

While we are yet speaking all may be 
done. 

One day at a time! 

It’s a wholesome rhyme, 

A good one to live by, 

A day at a time. 







MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


251 


One day at a time! When joy’s at its 
height— 

Such joy as the heart can never for¬ 
get— 

And pulses are throbbing with wild 
delight, 

How hard to remember that suns 
must set! 

One day at a time! 

It’s a wholesome rhyme, 

A good one to live by, 

A day at a time. 

One day at a time! But a single day, 

Whatever its lead, whatever its length! 

And there’s a sacred Scripture to say 

That, according to each shall be our 
strength. 

One day at a time! 

It’s a wholesome rhyme, 

A good one to live by, 

A day at a time. 

One day at a time! ’Tis the whole of life; 

All sorrow, all joy, are measured 
therein— 

The bound of our purpose, our noblest 
strife, 

The one only countersign, sure to win! 
One day at a time! 

It’s a wholesome rhyme, 

A good one to live by, 

A day at a time. 


OVER THE HILL . 

GEOKGE MACDONALD. 

“Traveler, what lies over the hill? 
Traveler, tell to me: 

I am only a child—from the window-sill 
Over I cannot see.” 


“Child, there’s a valley over there, 
Pretty and wooded and shy; 

And a little brook that says, ‘Take care, 
Or I’ll drown you by and by.’ ” 

“And what comes next?” “A little town, 
And a towering hill again, 

Those hills and valleys up and down, 
And a river now and then.” 

“And what comes next?” “A lonely moor 
Without a beaten way; 

And gray clouds sailing slow before 
A wind that will not stay.”, 

“And then?”“Dark rocks and yellow sand, 
And a moaning sea beside.” 

“And then?” “More sea, more sea, more 
land, 

And rivers deep and wide.” 

“And then?” “O, rock and mountain 
and vale, 

Rivers and fields and men, 

Over and over—a weary tale— 

And round to your home again.” 

“And is that all? Have you told the 
best?” 

“No, neither the best nor the end; 

On summer eves, away in the west, 

You will see a stair ascend. 

“Built of all colors of lovely stones,— 

A stair up into the sky, 

Where no one is weary, and no one 
morose, 

Or wants to be laid by.” 

“I will go,” “But the steps are very steep; 

If you would climb up there, 

You must lie at the foot as still as sleep, 
A very step of the stair.” 





252 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


THE KATY-DID. 

ANON. 

In the early autumn, 

While the summer green 
Lingers in the forest, 

On the hills is seen— 

Sings a little insect 
’Mong the leafage hid, 

And to every question 
Answers, “Katy-did.” 

O, you boasting Katy! 

Hiding in the wood, 

All the night-time fibbing, 

To the solitude; 

Who that hears, believes you % 
Yet who would forbid 
That short, harmless protest, 
Saying, “Katy-did.” 

If you would but show us 
What you hide so well, 

If the tiny secret, 

You would only tell, 

What she did so wondrous, 
How the deed was hid, 

All the world would listen 
To what “Katy-did.” 

But you only tease us 
With that steady boast, 
Making of one action 
Such a countless host; 
While our curious prying 
Stoutly you forbid, 

For you never tell us 
Just what “Katy-did.” 

If the deed doth shame you, 
Why not keep it still ? 


You do not confess it, 
Tattle as you will. 
Evermore the secret 
Is securely hid, 

And no living mortal 
Knows what “Katy-did.” 


THE ROBIN. 

JOHN G. WHITTIER. 

My old Welsh neighbor over the way 
Crept slowly out in the sun of spring, 
Pushed from her ears the locks of gray, 
And listened to hear the robin sing. 

Her grandson, playing at marbles, 
stopped, 

And cruel in sport, as boys will be, 
Tossed a stone at the bird, who hopped 
From bough to bough in the apple tree. 

“ Kay ! ” said the grandmother, “ have 
you not heard, 

My poor bad boy ! of the fiery pit, 
And how, drop by drop, this merciful bird 
Carries the water that quenches it ? 

“ He brings cool dew in his little bill, 
And lets it fall on the souls of sin ; 
You can see the mark on his red breast 
still 

Of fires that scorch as he drops it in. 

“ Prayers of love like raindrops fall, 
Tears of pity are cooling dew, 

And dear to the heart of our Lord are all 
Who suffer like Him in the good they 
do !” 







MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


253 



/ REMEMBER , I REMEMBER. 

THOMAS HOOD. 

I remember, I remember 
The house where I was born, 

The little window where the sun 
Came peeping in at morn ; 

He never came a wink too soon 
Nor brought too long a day; 

But now I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away ! 

I remember, I remember 
The roses, red and white, 

The violets, and the lily-cups,— 

Those flowers made of light! 

The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday,— 

The tree is living yet! 


I remember, I remember 
Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 
To swallows on the wing ; 

My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 

And summer pools could hardly cool 
The fever on my brow ! 

I remember, I remember 
The fir-trees dark and high; 

I used to think their slender tops 
Were close against the sky; 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now ’tis little joy 
To know I’m farther off from heaven 
Than when I was a boy. 










254 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


HOW THE RAVEN BECAME BLACK. 

BY JOHN G. SAXE 

(A Lesson to Tale-Bearers.) 

There’s a clever classic story, 

Such as poets used to write,— 

You may find the tale in Ovid, 

That the raven once was white. 

White as yonder swan a-sailing 
At this moment in the moat, 

Till the bird, for misbehavior, 

Lost, one day, his snowy coat. 

“Raven White,” was once the saying, 
Till an accident, alack ! 

Spoiled its meaning, and thereafter 
It was changed to “Raven Black.” 

Shall I tell you how it happened, 

That the change was brought about ? 
List the story of Coronis, 

An4 you’ll find the secret out. 

Young Coronis, fairest maiden 
Of Thessalia’s girlish train, 

Whom Apollo loved and courted,— 
Loved and courted not in vain— 

Flirted with another lover 
(So at least the story goes) 

And was wont to meet him slyly, 
Underneath the blushing rose. 

Whereupon the bird of Phoebus, 

Who their meetings chanced to view, 
Went in haste unto his master,— 

Went and told him all he knew. 

Told him how his dear Coronis, 

False and faithless as could be, 

Plainly loved another fellow,— 

If he doubted, come and see! 


Whereupon Apollo, angry, 

Thus to find himself betrayed, 

With his silver bow and arrow, 

Went and shot the wretched maid! 

Now when he perceived her dying, 

He was stricken to the heart, 

And to stop her mortal bleeding, 

Tried his famous healing art! 

But in vain; the god of physic 
Had no antidote; alack! 

He who took her off so deftly, 

Could not bring the maiden back. 

Angry with himself, Apollo, 

Yet more angry with his bird, 

For a moment stood in silence, 
Impotent to speak a word. 

Then he turned upon the raven, 

“ Wanton babbler! see thy fate! 
Messenger of mine no longer, 

Go to Hades with thy prate ! ” 

“Weary Pluto with thy tattle, 

Hither, monster, come not back; 

And—to match thy disposition— 
Henceforth be thy plumage black!” 

MORAL. 

When you’re tempted to make mischief 
It is wisest to refuse,— 

People are not apt to fancy 
Bearers of unwelcome news. 

SECOND MORAL. 

Something of the pitch you handle 
On your fingers will remain; 

As the raven’s tale of darkness 
Gave the bird a lasting stain. 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 






ZOO 



THE MO UN TAIN AND THE 
SQ U/RREL. 

RALPH WALDO EMER80N. 

The mountain and squirrel had a quarrel, 
And the former called the latter “ Little 
Prig.” 


Bun replied: 

“You are doubtless very big : 

But all sorts of things and weather, 
Must be taken in together 
To make up a year, 
j And a sphere. 

















25b 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


“And I think it no disgrace, 

To occupy my place. 

If I’m not so large as you, 

You’re not so small as I 
And not half so spry; 

“I’ll not deny, you make 
A very pretty squirrel track; 

Talents differ; all is well, and wisely put, 
If I cannot carry forests on my back, 
Neither can you crack a nut.” 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE 
STALES. 


H. W. LONGFELLOW. 

Somewhat back from the village street? 
Stands the old fashioned country-seat; 
Across its antique portico, 

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw; 


And, from its station in the hall, 

An ancient time-piece says to all: 

“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever! ” 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 

And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak, 

Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! 

With sorrowful voice to all who pass:— 
“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 

By day its voice is low and light, 

But in the silent dead of night, 

Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall, 

It echoes along the vacant hall, 

Along the ceiling, along the floor, 

And seems to say at each chamber door:/— 
“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever!” 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has 
stood, 

And as if, like God, it all things saw, 

It calmly repeats those words of awe:— 
“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever !” 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted hospitality; 

His great fires up the chimney roared; 
The stranger feasted at his board; 

But like the skeleton at the feast, 

That warning timepiece never ceased:— 
“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever!” 





















MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


257 


There groups of merry children played; 
There youths and maidens dreaming 
strayed; 

Oh, precious hour ! oh, golden prime 
And affluence of love and time ! 

Even as a miser counts his gold ! 

Those hours the ancient timepiece told:— 
“Forever—never! 

Never—forever!” 

From that chamber, clothed in white, 
The bride came forth on her wedding 
night; 

There, in that silent room below, 

The dead lay, in his shroud of snow; 
And, in the hush that followed the 
prayer, 

Was heard the clock on the stair:— 
“Forever—never! 

Never—forever!” 

Al l are scattered, now, and fled,— 

Some are married, some are dead; 

And when I ask with throbs of pain, 
“Oh ! when shall they all meet again ?” 
As in the days long since gone by, 

The ancient time-piece makes reply:— 
“Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 

Never here, forever there, 

Where all parting, pain, and care, 

And death and time shall disappear,— 
Forever there, but never here ! 

The horologue of eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly:— 

“Forever—never! 

Never—forever!” 


ONE BY ONE. 

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR. 

One by one the sands are flowing, 

One by one the moments fall; 

Some are coming, some are going— 
Do not strive to grasp them all. 

One by one thy duties wait thee, 

Let thy whole strength go to each; 

Let no future dreams elate thee— 
Learn thou first what these can teach. 

One by one (bright gifts from heaven) 
Joys are sent thee here below; 

Take them readily when given— 
Ready, too, to let them go. 

One by one thy griefs shall meet thee, 
Do not fear an armed band; 

One will fade while others greet thee, 
Shadows passing through the land. 

Do not look at life’s long sorrow, 

See how small each moment’s pain; 

God will help thee for to-morrow— 
Every day begin again. 

Every hour that fleets so slowly, 

Has its task to do or bear; 

Luminous the crown and holy, 

If thou set each gem with care. 

Do not linger with regretting, 

Or for passion’s hour despond; 

Nor, the daily toil forgetting, 

Look too eagerly beyond. 

Hours are golden links—God’s token— 
Reaching Heaven, but one by one, 

Take them lest the chain be broken 
Ere the pilgrimage be done. 





258 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


And the yellow sun-flower by the brook 
in Autumn beauty stood, 

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold 
heaven, as falls the plague on 
men, 

And the brightness of their smile was 
gone from upland, glade and 
glen. 

And now when comes the calm, mild 
day, as still such days will 
come, 

To call the squirrel and the bee from out 
their winter home, 

When the sound of dropping nuts is 
heard, though all the trees are 
still, 

And twinkle in the smoky light the 
waters of the rill; 

The south wind searches for the flowers 
whose fragrance late he bore, 

And sighs to find them in the wood and 
by the stream no more. 


THE DEA TH OF THE FLO WEES. 

WM. CULLEN BRYANT, 

The melancholy days are come, the 
saddest of the year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, 
and meadows brown and sere 

Heap’d in the hollows of the grove, th e 
withered leaves lie dead; 

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to 
the rabbits tread. 

The robin and the wren are flown, and 
from the shrub the jay, 

And from the wood-top calls the crow, 
through all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the f?ir young 
flowers, that lately sprung and 
stood 

In brighter light and softer airs, a 
beauteous sister-hood ? 

Alas! they all are in their graves, the 
gentle race of flowers 

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the 
fair and good of ours. 

The rain is falling where they lie; but 
the cold November rain 

Calls not from out the gloomy earth, the 
lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they 
perished long ago, 

And the wild-rose and the orchis died 
amid the summer glow : 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the 
aster in the wood, 


And then I think of one who in her 
youthful beauty died, 

The fair, meek blossom that grew up and 
faded by my side ; 

In the cold moist earth we laid her 
when the forest cast the leaf, 

And we wept that one so lovely should 
have a life so brief; 

Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like 
that young friend of ours 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish 
with the flowers. 










MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


259 


IS IT WORTH WHILE. 

JOAQUIN MILLBR. 

Is it worth while that we jostle a brother 
Bearing his load on the rough road of 

Is it worth while that we jeer at each 
other, 

In blackness of heart, that we war to 
the knife \ 

God pity us all in our pitiful strife! 


God pity us all as we jostle each other, 

God pardon us all for the triumphs 
we feel 

When a fellow goes down with his load 
on the heather, 

Pierced to the heart; words are keener 
than steel, 

And mightier far for woe than weel. 

Were it not well, in this* brief little 
journey, 



On over the isthmus, down into the 1 
tide, 

We give him a fish, instead of a serpent, 

Ere folding the hands to be and 
abide. 

Forever and aye in dust at his side ? 

Look at the roses saluting each other; 

Look at the herds all at peace on the 
plain; 

Man, and man only, makes war on his 
brother, 


And laughs in his heart at his peril 
and pain, 

Shamed by the beasts that go down on 
the plain. 

Is it worth while that we battle, to 
humble 

Some poor fellow down in the dust ? 

God pity us all! Time too soon will 
tumble 

All of us together, like leaves in a 
gust, 

Humbled, indeed, down into tho dust. 
















260 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER. 

FRANCIS S. KEY; 

In 1814, -when tlie British fleet was preparing 
to attack Baltimore, a vessel, on which was 
Francis S. Key, was seat to effect an exchange 
of prisoners. The vessel was detained until 
after the attack, and anxiously Key watched the 
American flag. The battle lasted during the 
night, and at daybreak he looked for the 
old flag, knowing that it would be in sight 
were the repulse successful; and on the ram¬ 
parts of Fort McHenry proudly floated the glo¬ 
rious emblem of Liberty In the fervor of the 
moment he took an old envelope from his pocket 
and on its back wrote most of this famous song. 

O, say, can yon see, by the dawn’s early 
light, 

What so proudly we hailed in the twi¬ 
light’s last gleaming ? 

Whose broad stripes and bright stars 
through the perilous fight, 

O’er the ramparts we watched were so 
gallantly streaming; 

And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs 
bursting in air, 

Gave proof through the night that our 
flag was still there. 

O, say, does that star-spangled banner 
yet wave 

O’er the land of the free, and the home 
of the brave ? 

On the shore dimly seen through the 
mists of the deep, 

Where the foe’s haughty host in dread 
silence reposes ; 

What is that which the breeze, o’er the 
towering steep, 

As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half 
discloses? 

Now it catches the gleam of the morn¬ 
ing’s first beam, 


In full glory reflected now shines on 
the stream ; 

’Tis the star-spangled banner ; O, long 
may it wave 

O’er the land of the free, and the home 
of the brave! 

And where is that band wdio so vaunt- 
ingly swore 

That the havoc of war and the battle’s 
confusion 

A home and a country should leave us 
no more ? 

Their blood has washed out their foul 
footsteps’ pollution. 

No refuge could save the hireling and 
slave, 

From the terror of death, the gloom of 
the grave; 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph 
shall wave 

O’er the land of the free, and the home 
of the brave. 

O, thus be it ever, when freeman shall 
stand 

Between their loved homes and the 
war’s desolation 

Blest with victory and peace, may the 
heaven-rescued land 

Praise the power that has made and 
preserved us a nation. 

Then conquer we must, for our cause it 
is just; 

And this be our motto : “ In God is our 
trust; ” 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph 
shall wave 

O’er the land of the free, and the home 
of the brave. 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


261 



DESTINY. 

An elm-tree and a pine-tree 
Grew by a castle wall; 

The one was strong and full and broad? 
The other straight and tall; 


And the elm-tree and the pine-tree 
Grew by the castle wall. 

There came a shipman to the shore, 
And hewed the pine-tree down ; 























262 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


There came a woodsman to the wood, 
And felled the elm-tree’s crown ; 
There came two men who needed both, 
And marked, and hewed them down. 

And now the pine-tree sails the sea, 

A topmast straight and tall; 

And now the elm tree cradle stands 
Where little children call; 

And the elm-tree and the pine tree 
Have left the castle wall. 


SPEAK GENTLY. 

DAVID BATES. 

Speak gently—it is better far 
To rule by love than fear; 

Speak gently—let not harsh words mar 
The good we might do here. 

Speak gently—love doth whisper low 
The vows that true hearts bind, 

And gently friendship’s accents flow, 
Affection’s voice is kind. 

Speak gently to the little child, 

It’s love be sure to gain; 

Teach it in accents soft and mild, 

It may not long remain. 

Speak gently to the aged one, 

Grieve not the careworn heart, 

The sands of life are nearly run— 

Let such in peace depart. 

Speak gently to the erring—know 
They may have toiled in vain ; 

Perhaps unkindness made them so; 

Oh ! win them back again. 


Speak gently to the young, for they 
Will have enough to bear, 

Pass through this life as best they may, 
’Tis full of anxious care. 

Speak gently, kindly to the poor, 

Let no harsh tone be heard ; 

They have enough they must endure 
Without an unkind word. 

Speak gently—He who gave his life 
To bend man’s stubborn will, 

When elements were in fierce strife 
Said to them, “ Peace, be still.” 

Speak gently—’tis a little thing 
Dropped in the heart’s deep well, 

The good, the joy which it may bring 
Eternity shall tell. 


LITTLE B Y LITTLE. 

Little by little the time goes by— 

Short if you sing through it, long if you 
sigh; 

Little by little—an hour a day, 

Gone with the years that have vanished 
away; 

Little by little the race is run, 

Trouble and waiting and toil are gone! 

Little by little the world grows strong, 
Fighting the battles of right and wrong; 
Little by little the wrong gives way, 
Little by little right has sway ; 

Little by little all longing souls 
Struggle up nearer the shining goal. 







MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


263 


LOCHINVAR. 

SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the 
west, 

Through all the wide border his steed 
was the best, 

And, save his good broadsword, he 
weapons had none. . 

He rode all unarmed, and he rode all 
alone. 

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in 
war, 

There never was knight like the young 
Lochinvar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopped 
not for stone, 

He swam the Esk river where ford 
there was none; 

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 

The bride had consented, the gallant 
came late : 

For a laggard in Jove and a dastard in 
war 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of young 
Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall^ 

Among brides-men, and kinsmen, and 
brothers and all; 

Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand 
on his sword 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said 
never a word): 

“ Oh, come ye in peace here, or come 
ye in war, 


Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord 
Lochinvar?” 

“ I long wooed your daughter, my suit 
you denied; 

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs 
like its tide: 

And now am I come with this lost love 
of mine, 

To lead but one measure, drink one cup 
of wine. 

There are maidens in Scotland more 
lovely by far, 

That would gladly be bride to the young 
Lochinvar.” 

He took her soft hand, ere her mother 
could bar; 

“Now tread we a measure!” said young 
Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely his 
face, 

That never a hall such a galliard did 
grace; 

While her mother did fret, and her 
father did fume, 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his 
bonnet and plume; 

And the bride-maidens whispered, 
“ ’Twere better by far 

To have matched our fair cousin with 
young Lochinvar.” 

One touch to her hand, and one word in 
her ear, 

When they reached the hall door, and 
the charger stood near; 




264 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


So light to the croup the fair lady he 
swung! 

So light to the saddle before her he 
sprung! 

“She is won! We are gone, over bank, 
bush and scaur; 

They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” 
quoth young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting ’mong Grsemes of 
the Netherby clan; 

Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they 
rode and they ran: 

There was racing and chasing on Can- 
nobie Lea, 

But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did 
they see. 

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 

Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young 
Lochinvar? 


OLD GRIMES. 

ALBERT G. GREENE. 

Old Grimes is dead, that good old man,— 
We ne’er shall see him more; 

He used to wear a long black coat 
All buttoned down before. 

His heart was open as the day, 

His feelings all were true; 

His hair was some inclined to gray,— 
He wore it in a queue. 

Whene’er he heard the voice of pain, 
His breast with pity burned; 

The large round head upon his cane, 
From ivory was turned. 

Kind words he ever had for all; 

He knew no base design; 


His eyes were dark and rather small, 
His nose was aquiline. 

He lived at peace with all mankind, 

In friendship he was true; 

His coat had pocket-holes behind, 

His pantaloons were blue. 

Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes 
He passed securely o’er,— 

And never wore a pair of boots 
For thirty years or more. 

But good Old Grimes is now at rest, 
Nor fears misfortune’s frown; 

He wore a double-breasted vest,— 

The stripes ran up and down. 

He modest merit sought to find, 

And pay it its deserts; 

He had no malice in his mind, 

No rutfles on his shirt. 

His neighbors he did not abuse,— 

W as sociable and gay; 

He wore large buckles on his shoes, 

And changed them every day. 

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, 
He did not bring to view, 

Nor make a noise, town-meeting days, 
As many people do. 

His worldly goods he never threw 
In trust to fortune’s chances, 

But lived as all his brothers do, 

In easy circumstances. 

Thus, undisturbed by anxious cares, 

His peaceful moments ran; 

And everybody said he was 
A fine old gentleman. 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


265 


THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

SAM’l WOODWORTH. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of 
my childhood 

When fond recollections present them 
to view! 

The orchard, the meadow, the deep- 
tangled wild wood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy 
knew; 

The wide spread¬ 
ing pond and 
the mill which 
stood by it, 

The bridge and 
the rock where 
the cataract 
fell; 

The cot of my 
father, the 
dairy -house 
nigh it, 

And e’en the 
rude bucket 
which hung in 
the well. 

The old oaken 

bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket which hung 
in the well. 

That moss - covered vessel I hail as a 
treasure; 

For often, at noon, when returned from 
the field, 

I found it the source of exquisite pleas¬ 
ure, 

The purest and sweetest that nature can 
yield. 


How ardent I seized it, with hands that 
were glowing ! 

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom 
it fell ; 

Then soon, with the emblem of truth 
overflowing, 

And dripping with coolness it rose from 
the well; 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
bucket, 

The moss - cov- 
ered bucket, 
arose from the 
well; 

How sweet from 
the gree n 
mossy brim to 
receive it, 

As poised on the 
curb, it in¬ 
clined to my 
lips! 

Not a full blush¬ 
ing goblet 
could tempt 
me to leave it, 

Though filled with the nectar that 
Jupiter sips; 

And now far removed from the loved 
situation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 

As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation 

And sighs for the bucket that hangs in 
the well; 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket that hangs in 
the well. 












266 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


BLIND MEN AND THE 
ELEPHANT 

3. G. SAXE. 

It was six men of Indostan 
To learning much inclined, 

Who went to see the Elephant; 
(Though all of them were blind) 

That each by observation 
Might satisfy his mind. 

The first approached the Elephant, 

And, happening to fall 

Against his broad and sturdy side, 

At once began to bawl; 

“ God bless me ! but the Elephant 
Is very like a wall!” 

The second , feeling of the tusk, 

Cried : “ Ho ! what have we here 
So very round and smooth and sharp ? 
To me ’tis mighty clear 
This wonder of an Elephant 
Is very like a spear !” 

The third approached the animal, 
And, happening to take 
The squirming trunk within his hands, 
Thus boldly up and spake: 

“ I see,” quoth he, “ the Elephant 
Is very like a snake! ” 

The fourth reached out his eager hand, 
And felt about the knee; 

“ What most this wondrous beast is 
like 

Is mighty plain,’” quoth he, 

“ ’Tis clear enough the Elephant 
Is very like a tree ! ” 


The fifth who chanced to touch the ear, 
Said : “ E’en the blindest man 
Can tell what this resembles most; 
Deny the fact who can, 

This marvel of an Elephant 
Is very like a fan! ” 

The sixth no sooner had begun 
About the beast to grope, 

Than seizing on the swinging tail 
That fell within his scope, 

“ I see,” quoth he, “ the Elephant 
Is very like a rope!” 

And so these men of Indostan 
Disputed loud and long; 

Each in his own opinion 
Exceeding stiff and strong, 

Though each was partly in the right 
And all were in the wrong. 

MORAL. 

So oft in theologie wars, 

The disputants I ween, 

Hail on in utter ignorance 
Of what each other mean, 

And prate about an Elephant 
Hot one of them has seen ! 

FLOWERS . 

MRS. FELICIA HEMANS. 

’Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours 
As they floated in light away, 

By the opening and the folding flowers 
That laugh to the summer day; 

Oh ! let us live, so that flower by flower, 
Shutting in turn, may leave 
A lingerer still for the sunset hour, 

A charm for the shaded eve. 

—Mrs. Remans. 






c 




j 


PART six. 


/T\e/ir\ory 



ems. 


r 


7R 


\J 























MEMORY GEMS. 


At every trifle scorn to take offence; 

That always shows great pride or little 
sense. — Pojpe. 

A few seem favorites of fate 
In pleasure’s lap caressed; 

Yet think not all the rich and great 
Are likewise truly blest. 

— Burns. 

Ah! what would the world be to us, 

If the children were no more? 

We should dread the desert behind us 
Worse than the dark before. 

— Longfellow . 

A late moon is of use to nobody. 

— Browning. 

All that’s bright must fade, 

The brightest still the fleetest; 

All that’s sweet was made 
But to be lost when sweetest. 

— Moore. 

A light heart lives long. 

— Shakespeare. 

All things I thought I knew; but now 
confess 

The more I know I know I know the 
less. —Spurgeon. 

271 


A sacred burden is this life you bear. 
Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly; 

Stand up, and walk beneath it steadfastly; 
Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin, 

But onward, upward, till the goal ye win. 

—Francis Kemble. 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: 

Its loveliness increases; it will never 
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and 
quiet breathing. 

— Keats. 

A verse may find him who a sermon flies 
And turn delight into a sacrifice. 

— Herbert. 

Bad habits gather by unseen degrees, 

As brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas. 

— Dryden. 

Be but yourselves; be pure, be true, 

And prompt to duty. Heed the deep 
Low voice of conscience; through the ill 
And tumult that surround you, keep 
Your faith in human nature still. 

— Whittier. 




272 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Be a man! 

Bear your own burdens, never think to 
thrust 

Thy fate upon another. 

— Browning. 

Be not the first by whom the new is tried, 
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. 

— Pope. 

Charity—gently to hear, kindly to judge. 

— Shakespeare. 

Cherish what is good, and drive 
Evil thoughts and feelings far; 

For, as sure as you’re alive, 

Y ou will show for what you are. 

—Alice Cary. 

Dare to be true, nothing can need a lie; 
A fault which needs it most grows two 
thereby. — Herbert. 

Defeat may be victory in disguise; 

The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. 

— Longfellow. 

Defer not till to-morrow to be wise, 
To-morrow’s sun to thee may never rise. 

— Congreve. 

Delightful task to rear the tender thought 
And teach the young idea how to shoot. 

—Thompson. 

Do all the good you can, 

In all the ways you can, 

To all the people you can, 

Just as long as you can. 

— Anon. 

Do the duty which lies nearest thee, 
which thou knowest to be a duty. 
Thy second duty will already have be¬ 
come clearer. — Carlyle. 


E’en such is time: which takes on trust 
Our youth, our joys, our all we have, 
And pass us but with earth and dust. 

—Sir Walter Raleigh, 

Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow, 
He that would search for pearls must 
dive below. — Dryden. 

Evil is wrought by want of thought, 

As well as want of heart. 

— Hood. 

Fail!—fail? 

In the lexicon of youth, which Fate 
reserves 

For a bright manhood, there is no such 
word as— fail! 

—Edward Bulwer-Lytton. 

For of all sad. words of tongue or pen, 
The saddest are these: “It might have 
been.” — Whittier. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; 
Full many a flower is born to blush 
unseen 

And waste its fragrance on the desert air. 

— Cray. 

Hearts, like doors, can ope with ease 
To very, very little keys; 

And don’t forget that they are these: 

“I thank you , sir,” and “If you please.” 

— -Anon. 

Heaven is not reached by a single bound, 
But we build the ladder by which we 
rise 

From the lowly earth to the vaulted 
skies, 

And we mount to its summit round by 
round. — Longfellow. 




MEMORY GEMS. 


273 


Help thyself and God will help thee. 

— Herbert. 

He makes no friend who never made a 
foe. — Tenvy son. 

He trudged along, unknowing what he 
soaght, 

And whistled as he went, for want of 
thought. — Dryden. 

He pra/eth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things both great and small: 

For the dear God who loveth us 
He made and loveth all, 

— Coleridge . 

Honor and shame from no conditions rise, 
Act well your part, there all the honor 
lies. — Pope. 

Howe’er it be, it seems to me 
’Tis only noble to be good. 

Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
And simple faith than Norman blood. 

— Tennyson. 

How poor are they that have no patience! 

— Shakespeare. 

I can easier teach twenty what were 
good to be done, than be one of twenty 
to follow my own teaching. 

— Shakespeare. 

Learn the luxury of doing good. 

— Goldsmith. 

It is well to think well, 

It is divine to act well. 

— Mann. 


I wish that friends were always true, 
And motives always pure; 

1 wish the good were not so few, 

I wish the bad were fewer. 

— Saxe. 

I would not enter on my list of friends, 
Though graced with polished manners 
and fine sense, the man 
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 

— Cowper. 

Know how sublime a thing it is to 
suffer and be strong. 

— Longfellow. 

Life glides away, Lorenzo! like a brook, 
For ever changing, unperceived the 
change; 

In the same brook none ever bathed him 
twice; 

To the same life none ever twice awoke; 
We call the brook the same; the same 
we think 

Our life, though still more rapid in its 
flow. — Young. 

Life is a leaf of paper white, 

Whereon each one of us may write 
His word or two, and then comes night. 
* * * * 

Greatly begin! Though thou have time 
But for a line, be that sublime— 

Not failure, but low aim, is crime. 

— Lowell. 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Foot-prints on the sands of time. 

— Longfellow. 





274 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


Look up and not down, 

Look forward and not back, 

Look out and not in, 

Lend a hand. 

— E. E. Rale. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way, 

But to act, that each to-morrow 
Finds us farther than to-day. 

— Longfellow. 

Make the truth thine own for truth’s 
own sake. — Whittier. 

Never stand to doubt; 

Nothing’s so hard but search will find it 
out. — Bob Herrick. 

Nothing resting on its own completeness 
Can have worth or beauty; but alone 
Because it leads and tends to further 
sweetness, 

Fuller, higher, deeper, than its own. 

Life is only bright when it proceedeth 
Toward a truer, deeper life above. 

—Proctor. 

Oh, fear not in a world like this, 

And thou shalt know ere long— 

Know how sublime a thing it is 
To suffer and be strong. 

— Longfellow. 

Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower, 
Shutting in turn, may leave 
A lingerer still for the sunset hour, 

A charm for the shaded eve. 

— Hemans. 


Oh! many a shaft at random sent, 

Finds mark the archer little meant! 

And many a word, at random spoken, 
May soothe, or wound, a heart that’s 
broken. — Scott. 

Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, 
Our fatal shadows that walk by us still. 

— Emerson. 

Ours is the seed time, God alone 
Beholds the end of what is sown; 

Beyond our vision, weak and dim, 

The harvest time is hid with Him. 

— Whittier. 

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of 
saddest thought. — Shelley. 

O, wad some power the giftie gie us 
To see oursel’s as ithers see us; 

It wad frae monie a blunder free us! 

— Burns. 

Ponder well, and know the right, 
Onward then, with all thy might! 

Haste not! years can ne’er atone 
For one reckless action done. 

— Goethe. 

Procrastination is the thief of time. 

— Young. 

Small service is true service while it 
lasts; 

Of friends, however humble, scorn not 
one; 

The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, 
Protects the lingering dew-drops from 
the sun. 

— Wordsworth. 




MEMORY GEMS. 


275 


. 





Standing with reluctant feet, 

Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet! 

* * * * 

Oh thou child of many prayers! 

Life hath quicksands—life hath snares! 

— Longfellow. 

The post of honor is a private station. 

— Addison. 

Tender handed stroke a nettle, 

And it stings you for your pains, 

Grasp it like a man of mettle, 

And it softr as silk remains 

—Aaron Hitt. 

The best laid schemes o’mice and men 
Gang aft a-gley 

And leave us nought but grief and pain 
For promised joy. 

— Burns. 

The cup that cheers but not inebriates. 

— Cowfter. 

The Hight is mother of the Day, 

The Winter of the Spring, 

And ever upon old Decay 
The greenest mosses cling. 

Behind the cloud the starlight lurks. 
Through showers the sunbeams fall; 

For God, who loveth all His works, 
Hath left His hope with all. 

— Whittier. 

There are more things in heaven and 
earth, Horatio, 

Than are dreamed of in your philosophy. 

— Shakespeare. 
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, 
Rough-hew them as we will. 

— Shakespeare. 


The tissue of the life to be 
We weave with colors all our own 
And in the field of Destiny, 

We reap as we have sown. 

— Whittier. 

They are never alone who are accom¬ 
panied by noble thoughts. 

— P. Sidney. 

Think that day lost whose low descend¬ 
ing sun 

Yiews from thy hand no noble action 
done. — Anon. 

This above all, to thine own self be true, 
And it must follow, as the night the day, 
Thou can’st not then be false to any man. 

— Shakespeare. 

This our life, exempt from public haunt, 
Finds tongues in trees, books in the run¬ 
ning brooks, 

Sermons in stones, and good in every¬ 
thing. — Shakespeare. 

Though the mills of God grind slowly, 
Yet they grind exceeding small; 
Though with patience He stands waiting; 
With exactness grinds He all. 

— Longfellow. 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 

— Longfellow. 

’Tis God made man, no doubt—not 
chance— 

He made us great and small; 






276 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


But being made, ’tis-circumstance 
That finishes us all. 

—Owen Meredith. 

’Tis heaven alone that is given away, 
’Tis only God may be had for the asking. 

— Lowell. 

’Tis well to be amused; 

But when amusement does instruction 
bring 

’Tis better. 

— Shakespeare. 

’Tis wisdom’s law, the perfect code 
By love inspired— 

Of him on whom much is bestowed 
Is much required. 

— Pope. 

To err is human, to forgive, divine. 

— Pope. 

Use well the moment; what the hour 
Brings for thy use is in thy power; 

And what thou best can’st understand, 

Is just the thing lies nearest to thy hand. 

—Goethe. 

Yice is a monster of so frightful mien, 
As, to be hated, needs but to be seen; 


Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, 
We first endure,then pity, then embrace. 

— Pope. 

Virtue alone outlives the pyramids. 

— Young. 

We live in deeds, not years, in thoughts 
not breaths, 

In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 

We should count time by heart-throbs. 
He most lives 

Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts 
the best. — Bailey. 

What in me is dark, 

Illumine; what is low raise and support. 

— Milton. 

What is it to be wise? 

’Tis but to know how little can be known, 
To see all others’ faults, and feel our 
own. — Pope. 

Would’st thou shut up the avenues of ill? 
Pay every debt as if God wrote the bill. 

— Emerson. 

Y ou must either soar or stoop, 

Fall or triumph, stand or droop. 

— Goethe. 


© 









c_T- 


PART SEVEN. 



C 7f\ vJ 















278 





















r .r 

































Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


John Greenleaf Whittier. 


James Russell 


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


' 





Biographical SKefesheS 

OF HOTEb AUTHORS. 


ALDRICH, Thomas Bailey. —Born 
November 11, 1836, at Portsmouth, N. 
H. Aldrich is widely known as poet, 
novelist and journalist. He began his 
literary career during the three years of 
his connection with the mercantile house 
of his uncle in New York. A collection 
of his poems was first published in 1855, 
the volume taking its name from the in¬ 
itial piece, “ The Bells.” His most suc¬ 
cessful poem is “ Baby Bell,” included 
in these pages. In 1856 Mr. Aldrich 
j'oined the staff of the Home Journal , 
and afterwards was connected with Every 
Saturday as chief editor. In 1881 he 
became editor of the Atla/ntio Monthly , 
continuing in this position for nine 
years. Fourteen volumes bear his name 
and all of them favorites with lovers of 
good books. 

ANDERSEN, Hans Christian, was a 
gifted Danish poet and author. He was 
born in Odense, on the island of Fiinen, 
in the Baltic sea, April 2, 1805. His 
father, though belonging to a wealthy 
family, died quite indigent when his son 
was but nine years old, compelling him 
to depend upon himself. Going to Copen¬ 
hagen, he won the esteem of a kind 
patron, through whose influence he was 


educated by the state, and afterward, 
obtaining aid from the king of Denmark, 
he traveled through Germany, France 
and Italy; by this means he became ac¬ 
quainted with many of the legends cur¬ 
rent throughout Europe, which later on 
were woven by him into romances, travels 
and poems. His original genius is most 
clearly shown in his fairy tales, which 
have achieved a world-wide popularity 
and are particularly pleasing to young 
people. He died August 4, 1875. 

ARNOLD, Edwin. —An English poet, 
whose name is well known as a journal¬ 
istic and poetic writer; was born June 
10, 1832, and educated at colleges in 
London and Oxford. After leaving col¬ 
lege he was subsequently appointed 
principal of the Government Sanscrit 
College at Poonah, India, and Fellow of 
the University of Bombay, holding the 
position during the Sepoy mutiny of 
1857. In 1876 Mr. Arnold received the 
second class of the Imperial Order of the 
Medjidie from the Sultan, and in 1889 
was knighted by Queen Victoria. He 
is also a Fellow of the Royal Asiatic and 
the Royal Geographical Society of Lon¬ 
don, and Honorary Correspondent of 




282 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


that of Marseilles. “ The Light of Asia,” 
a pleasing and beautiful poem written in 
1879, is the work by which he is most 
popularly known. On his return to 
England from Japan in February, 1891 ? 
he published his last work, entitled “The 
Light of the World.” 

BROWNING, Elizabeth Barrett, 
one of the most gifted of female 
poets, was born near Ledbury, Hereford¬ 
shire, about 1807, where the early part 
of her life was spent. Mrs. Browning 
was a very clever child and gave early 
proof of her poetical genius. She wrote 
verses at ten years of age, and at nine¬ 
teen published a book of poems. Other 
volumes followed in 1833, 1838, 1839i 
1840, and two volumes in 1844. In 1846 
she married the poet, Robert Browning, 
and resided in Italy many years. 
“Aurora Leigh ” is her largest and most 
admired work. 

BROWNING, Robert.— This poet 
was born in 1812 at Ciiamberwell, a 
suburb of London. The earlier part of 
Browning’s education was acquired at 
Dulwich and at home under a private 
tutor; later he attended University Col¬ 
lege, London. After leaving college he 
devoted his time to books, travel and 
literature. His first published attempts 
in poetry appeared in 1833, and when he 
was but a little over twenty years of age ; 
other works followed in 1835, 1837, 
1840; in 1846 “Bells and Pomegranites.” 
Between 1855 and 1864 a volume of 
miscellaneous poems was written. His | 


last work was entitled “Asolando.” Mr. 
Browning died in Venice, December 12, 
1889, and was buried in the poets’ cor¬ 
ner of Westminster Abbey. 

BRYANT, William Cullen. —This 
worthy American poet was born at Cum- 
mington, Hampshire Co., Mass., 'on the 
3rd of November, 1794. Bryant was 
descended from an honorable and cultured 
ancestry, and was reared with unusual 
interest and care by his refined parents. 
His poetical genius brought him into 
notice when about thirteen years of age 
by the composition of a couple of poems 
which were published the following year. 
In 1810 he entered Williams College 
and became a student at law. He was 
admitted to the bar in 1815. In 1818 he 
published “ Thanatopia,” and a volume 
of poems in 1821. In 1826 he became 
associate editor of the Evening Post , a posi¬ 
tion which he filled till his death, though 
absent in foreign lands for several years. 
In 1832 a complete edition of his poems 
was published. Another complete edi¬ 
tion appeared in 1855, and in 1863 was 
published a volume entitled “Thirty 
Poems.” These, with letters of travel, 
translations and an unfinished history, 
complete his works. He passed to his 
rest in the balmy month of June, 1878. 

BURDETTE, Robert Jones, an 
American humorist, was born at Greens- 
borough, Penn., July 30, 1844. Early 
in life he resided in Cincinnati, and 
afterwards at Peoria, Ill. He was in the 
Union military service from 1862 to 





BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 


283 


1865. He afterwards went to Burling¬ 
ton, Iowa, and became one of the editors 
of the Hawkeye. Mr. Burdette has won 
renown as a public lecturer, and has 
published a number of rare and pretty 
poems, beside several humorous books. 

CARLETON, William M.— This 
Michigan poet was born near Hudson, 
Mich., October 21, 1S45. His early life 
was spent on his father’s farm, and many 
of his songs are descriptive of rural life. 
He graduated at Hillsdale College in 
1869. His works are principally pub¬ 
lished in volumes under the titles of 
‘‘Farm Ballads” (1873), “Farm Leg¬ 
ends” (1875), “Young Folks’ Centennial 
Rhymes” (1876), “Farm Festivals” (1883) 
and “City Ballads.” He contributed to 
the poetry of our nation the lines, “Cover 
Them Over,” frequently used as a re¬ 
cital on Decoration Day. One of his 
later productions is the poem in this 
book, “Let the Cloth be White.” 

CARY, Alice, was born near Cincin¬ 
nati, O., April 26, 1820. Her first writ¬ 
ings were published in periodicals under 
the title of Patty Lee, and she afterward 
published several volumes of poems and 
other works, including three novels. 
Among her principal writings are 
“Clovernook Sketches,” which were very 
popular both in America and Europe. 
She died February 12, 1871, in Hew 
York. 

CARY, Phebe, a sister of Alice, was 
born near Cincinnati, September 4,1824. 


She also contributed to periodical litera¬ 
ture. These sisters were reared on a 
farm, and there began their literary work; 
removing about 1850 from Ohio to New 
York City, where they afterward resided, 
they continued writing till their deaths. 
Among their poems are many charming 
ones for children, of which a number 
from both their pens will be found in 
this book. Phebe Cary died July 31, 
1871. 

CHILD, Lydia Maria, was born at 
Medford, Mass., in 1802. Her first pub¬ 
lication, an Indian story, appeared in 
1824. “ The Rebels ” followed in 1825. 

In 1826 she became editor of the Juvenile 
Miscellany , which she conducted for 
eight years. From 1841 to 1843 she was 
editor of the National Anti-Slavery 
Standard. In 1852 she collected her 
juvenile works into one volume, under 
the title of “Flowers for Children.” 
Other works were published in 1855 and 
1860. Her last work was written in 
1867, after which she retired to Way- 
land, Mass. Her writings consist of both 
prose and verse. She died October 20, 
1880. 

COLERIDGE, Samuel Taylor, the 
eminent English poet and critic, was 
born at Otterv St. Mary, Devonshire, 
England, October 21,1772. He was the 
youngest child of the vicar of that par¬ 
ish. In 1791 he entered Jesus College, 
Cambridge, but left without a degree. 
He gave some lectures and preached a 
little for the Unitarians in 1795, and in 





284 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


the same year married the sister-in-law 
of Robert Southey. A volume of juvenile 
poems was published in 1796, which in¬ 
creased the poet’s popularity, and later 
on he wrote numerous other poems, one 
of his best being “ The Rhyme of the 
Ancient Mariner.” He removed to Kes¬ 
wick, on Lake Derwentwater, in 1800, 
joining his two friends, Southey and 
Wordsworth—from which fact the trio 
were known as “ Lake Poets.” About 
1810 he left Keswick, and his wife and 
daughter dependent on Southey. He 
died in 1834. 

COLERIDGE, Sara. —Only daughter 
of the preceding, whose genius she in¬ 
herited, was born at Keswick, 1803, and 
died in 1852. 

COOK, Eliza, an English poetess of 
popular favor, was born in Southwark, 
London, in 1817. She became a con¬ 
tributor to periodicals at quite an early 
age, and in 1840 published a volume of 
poems and songs. In 1849 she com¬ 
menced the publication of a journal, 
which she continued for a number of 
years. One of her most popular pro¬ 
ductions is the “Old Arm Chair.” She 
died September, 1889. 

COWPER, William. —One of the 
most eminent and popular of English 
poets, was born at Great Berkhamstead, 
Hertfordshire, on the 26th of November, 
1731. He was educated at a private 
school and at Westminster. Cowper was 
descended from an ancient and noble 
family; his health from childhood was 


delicate, and this, combined with great 
sensitiveness of disposition, induced sev¬ 
eral attacks of insanity. About 1780, 
his funds being exhausted, his friends 
persuaded him to cultivate his poetical 
powers. His writings progressed rapid¬ 
ly and the result of these efforts was a 
volume of poems. “The Task” was 
commenced in 1783 and published in 
1785; it rapidly gained favor, and became 
more popular than any other work of 
equal length in the language. His 
translation of Horace was printed in 
1791. In 1794 the crown gave him a 
pension of 300 pounds. His last poem 
was “ The Castaway.” He died April 
25, 1800. 

PARLEY, George. — A poet and 
mathematician, was born in Dublin in 
1785, removing to London in 1825. He 
contributed to various periodicals and 
wrote several poems, as well as treatises 
on mathematics. He died 1847. 

DAVENANT, Sir William. — An 
English dramatic poet, was born at Ox¬ 
ford in 1605. He was chosen poet-laureate 
in 1637, as successor to Ben Johnson. 
In 1643 he was knighted by Charles I. 
For political causes he was confined in 
the Tower and was indebted to Milton 
for his safety. He died in 1668, and was 
buried in Westminster Abbey. 

DICKENS, Charles (Boz), was born 
at Portsmouth, England, February, 1812. 
After young Dickens had studied law, 
he was placed in the office of an attorney ? 
but.this calling was soon abandoned for 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 


285 


the more congenial one of literature. 
Beginning as reporter for the daily press 
of London, he soon distinguished himself 
by his ability. His “ Sketches of Life 
and Character” were published under 
the pen name of “ Bozthese were re¬ 
ceived by the public with much enthusi¬ 
asm. Then followed the “ Pickwick 
Papers,” noted tor their humor. He 
published in rapid succession “ Oliver 
Twist” (1838), “Nicholas Nicholby” 
(1839), “ Master Humphrey’s Clock ” 
(1840), “Barnaby Budge” (1841), “Ameri¬ 
can Notes” (1842), “Martin Chuzzlewit” 
(1843). Among his later works are 
“ Dombey & Son ” (1848), “ David Cop- 
perfield” (1850), “Bleak House” (1852), 
“Hard Times” (1854), “Little Dorrit” 
(1857), “A Tale of Two Cities” (1860), 
“ Great Expectations ” (1862) and “Our 
Mutual Friend” (1864). In 1867 he 
made a second visit to the United States 
and gave readings from all his principal 
works. He died of apoplexy in 1870, 
leaving “Edwin Drood” unfinished. 

DODGE, Mary Mapes, was born in 
New York City. In 1873 she became 
the editor of Saint Nicholas , a magazine 
for children. Her writings include both 
prose and verse. Among the latter are 
“Rhymes and Jingles” (1875) and “Along 
the Way” (1879). 

EDWARDS, Amelia Blandford.— 
Born in 1831, is a Londoner by birth, 
but now resides in a pleasant suburban 
home near Bristol. Her literary life 
proper began when she was about twenty- 


one years of age. In 1865 her poetical 
productions were brought together in a 
volume of “Ballads.” Her literary 
works consist of novels, travels and 
poems. Miss Edwards is a member of 
many learned societies, and has been 
spoken of as “the most learned woman 
in the world.” She is a bright and capti¬ 
vating writer, and in the varied fields of 
art, language, travel, literature, scholar¬ 
ship and criticism she has perhaps no 
living equal. “ The Irish Lament ” is 
her most popular song. 

EMERSON, Ralph Waldo, the dis¬ 
tinguished poet and essayist, was born in 
Boston, Mass., May 25, 1803. He 
entered Harvard College at fourteen and 
was class-day poet at the age of eighteen 
years. He returned from Europe in 
1833 and began his long and splendid 
career as a lecturer. A volume of his 
“Essays” appeared in 1841, and a sec¬ 
ond one in 1844, which, by their origin¬ 
ality of thought, excited much attention. 
In 1846 a collection of his poems was 
given to the public, and his miscellaneous 
addresses in 1849. One of the most im¬ 
portant of all his publications was pub¬ 
lished in 1850, entitled “ Representative 
Men.” In 1856 appeared “ English 
Traits,” and in 1860 “ The Conduct of 
Life.” His last volume of poems, “May- 
day and other Pieces,” was published in 
1867; in 1870 twelve essays, entitled 
“ Society and Solitude.” For profound 
thought Emerson is sometimes called the 
American Carlyle, and his works are 
read by thinkers and scholars all over the 





286 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


world. This “Sage of Concord” died 
at his home, April 27, 1882. 

EVERET T, Edward. —A distinguish¬ 
ed American orator, scholar and states¬ 
man, was born at Dorchester, Mass., in 
1794. He graduated from Harvard in 
1811, with the highest honors of the 
class. In 1814 he was ordained as 
minister in Boston. He filled with great 
ability the following offices successively: 
In 1819 Professor of Greek at Harvard ; 
from 1824 to 1834 Congressman; 1835, 
Governor of Mass.; later on was Secretary 
of State ; Minister Abroad; President of 
Harvard ; Senator of Mass.; 1860 candi¬ 
date for Vice-President. His literary 
productions consist chiefly of public 
speeches, which are not surpassed in 
valuable information. He died in Bos¬ 
ton in 1865. 

GOETHE, Johann Wolfgang von.— 
One of the greatest poets of the age and 
Germany’s most illustrious poet, was 
born August 28, 1749, in Frankfort, a 
free city of the German Empire. He 
was descended from a cultured family, 
inheriting a sunny disposition, a well 
proportioned figure, and a noble intellect 
that was moulded and trained with care, 
under the superintendence of his father, 
during his boyhood. Leipsic University 
received him at sixteen years of age, and 
five years later he entered Strasburg Uni¬ 
versity for the purpose of studying law, 
but renounced it for literature, of which 
he proved to be one of her grandest sons. 
“Faust” is his greatest production, 


though his works comprise a long list of 
stories, criticisms, dramas, ballads and 
lyrics. The poet Schiller was his most 
intimate friend. He died at Weimar 
on the 22d of March, 1832, and was 
buried in the grand-ducal vault. 

GOLDSMITH, Oliver.— A poet and 
miscellaneous -writer, was born at the 
village of Pallas, Ireland, November 10, 
1728. Oliver was the fourth of seven 
children. His parents being poor, his 
opportunities for an education were 
meager ; but when a youth of seventeen 
his uncle, having early discovered his 
talent for making rhymes, furnished him 
means to continue his studies at the Uni¬ 
versity of Dublin; of this opportunity 
he made poor use, but succeeded in ob¬ 
taining a degree in 1749. Goldsmith 
now aimlessly turned his attention from 
one profession to another without suc¬ 
cess ; he set out on foot for a tour of 
Europe, and, at the age of thirty, without 
other means of support, he settled down 
in a garret to eke out a living at litera¬ 
ture. At this he was successful, writing 
at first for magazines and papers, but 
later on published a number of noted 
works. His two most famous poems are 
“The Traveler” and “The Deserted Vil¬ 
lage.” During this period of Goldsmith’s 
life he enjoyed the friendship of many 
men of note, and was one of the nine 
members of Johnson’s celebrated literary 
club. 

GOULD, Hannah Flagg, an Ameri¬ 
can poetess, was born at Lancaster, Mass., 





BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 


287 


in 1789, and died at Newburyport, Sep¬ 
tember 5, 1865. She published a volume 
of poems in 1832, a second one in 1836, 
a third in 1841, and in 1854, “Hymns 
and Poems for Children.” 

GRAY, Thomas, was born in London, 
December 26, 1716. This poet, to a 
great extent, was indebted to his amiable 
mother for his education. He attended 
college at both Eton and Cambridge. 
While at Eton he had for intimate friends 
Richard West and Horace Walpole, and 
in company with the latter he visited 
France and Italy in 1739. Gray returned 
to London in 1741, and in 1742 took his 
degree of bachelor of civic law at Cam¬ 
bridge, where he continued to reside the 
remainder of his life, for the purpose 
of following literature as a profession. 
“The Elegy,Written in a Country Church¬ 
yard” was published in 1749, and met 
with universal admiration. On the death 
of the poet, Colly Cibber, he was offered 
the post of poet-laureate, but declined 
the honor. In 1768 he was appointed 
professor of modern history at Cambridge. 
He died after a short illness on the 30th 
of July, 1771. Gray wrote but little; 
however, the excellence of both his prose 
and verse entitles him to occupy a high 
rank in English literature. 

GREER, Albert Gorton, was born 
at Providence, R. I., in 1802, and grad¬ 
uated at Brown University in 1820. He 
has written many pretty fugitive poems, 
and deserves special mention for his 
eulogy on “Old Grimes.” He died in 
1868. 


HALE, Sarah Josepha. —A gifted 
American authoress, was born at New¬ 
port, K. H., 1793, and married to Mr. 
David Hale in 1814. In 1828 she be¬ 
came editor of the Ladies' Magazine , 
which in 1837 she united with Goodie's 
Ladies' Book. Beside her editorial 
work she published more than twenty 
separate works. Died April 30, 1879. 

HATCH, Mary J., was born in New 
York City in 1820, where she still re¬ 
sides at this date. 

HEMANS, Felicia Dorothy, was 
born in Liverpool, September 25, 1794. 
The first volume of her poems was pub¬ 
lished at fourteen, and the second at 
eighteen years of age. “ Hymns for 
Childhood,” also “ Casabianca,” one of 
the most popular poems in the English 
language, are among her works. Her 
poetry is infinitely sweet, touching and 
tender. The last four years of her life 
were passed at Dublin, where she died 
May 16, 1836. 

HOLLAND, Josiah Gilbert (Tim¬ 
othy Titcomb).—A popular American 
author, widely known as journalist, 
lecturer, essayist and poet, was born at 
Belchertown, Mass., 1819. He engaged 
in the practice of medicine for a few 
years, but abandoned it for literary pur¬ 
suits. In 1870 he became editor of the 
Scribner's Monthly , and continued in the 
work till his death, which occurred in 
New York City, October 12, 1881. 
Holland’s reputation was chiefly due to 
his prose writings, although his poems, 




288 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


“ Bittersweet,” “Katrina” and “Mistress 
of the Manse,” are widely known. One 
of his sweetest poems adorns these pages. 

HOLMES, Oliver Wendell, a noted 
American author, wit and poet, and a 
native of Mass., was born August 29, 
1809. He graduated at Harvard in 1829, 
and received the degree of M. D. in 
1836. In 1838 he was tendered the 
chair of anatomy and physiology in 
Dartmouth College, a position which he 
held till a similar one was offered him 
at Harvard in 1847. His literary work 
has been carried on continuously with 
his professorship. An edition of his 
poems appeared in 1836, and other poems 
in 1843, 1846 and 1850. In 1857-58 his 
witty and brilliant writings appeared in 
the Atlantic Monthly under the title, 
“Autocrat of the Breakfast Table,” which 
were followed in 1859 by another series 
called “ The Professor at the Breakfast 
Table,” and in 1872 by “The Poet at the 
Breakfast Table.” In 1861-62 two other 
works were published. His popular 
writings will ever hold a high place in 
American literature. 

HOOD, Thomas, a popular English 
poet and humorist, was born in London 
May 23, 1798. Hood’s advantages for 
an education were limited. His first 
years in business were spent in a count¬ 
ing house, but this being distasteful to 
him, he engaged in literary pursuits, and 
soon was surrounded by the leading 
literary men of the day; this gradually 
developed his own intellectual powers. 


During his life he was editor of several 
magazines, and was still writing for one 
of these up to his last illness. His death 
occurred May 3, 1840. His tales and 
novels were less successful than his hu¬ 
morous works. Among his most popular 
poems are the “ Song of the Shirt ” and 
the “ Bridge of Sighs.” A beautiful 
little poem suggestive of Hood’s boyish 
fancies has been added to this volume. 

HOWITT, Mary Botham, an English 
authoress, was born at Uttoxeter about 
1804. Her parents were Quakers, and 
Mary was very rigidly reared. When 
eight years old she was sent to a board¬ 
ing school. Later, when her school-days 
were over, she returned home and acted 
in the capacity of teacher to her younger 
brothers and sisters. When about nine¬ 
teen years of age she met and married 
Wm. Howitt, a British writer. Their 
literary taste brought them the acquaint¬ 
ance of many famous writers of the day. 
In 1829 they paid their first visit to Lon¬ 
don, and were warmly received. They 
published together a volume of poems in 
1823, a second in 1827, and a third in 
1831. In 1852, “ The Literature and 
Romance of Northern Europe.” She 
published works alone in 1839, 1840, 
1844,1853 ; besides these, many transla¬ 
tions, including some of Hans Christian 
Andersen’s. 

INGELOW, Jean, who has an honored 
place in society, was an English poet, 
and born at Boston, England, in 1830. 
She is much admired for her literary 







BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 


289 


taste, ranking next to Mrs. Browning as 
queen of English song. In 1863 she 
published her first volume of poetry, 
from which we take the popular “ Song 
of Seven ” for this work. Other publi¬ 
cations followed in 1864, 1866, 1867, 
1868, 1869, 1872, 1875, 1881. She now 
lives in retirement in Kensington, Eng¬ 
land, and writes but little, devoting her 
time to charitable works. 

JACKSON, Helen Hunt, an Ameri¬ 
can poet, journalist and author, of much 
merit, was born in Amherst, Mass., in 
1831. Professor N. W. Fisk was her 
father. Her first husband’s name was 
Hunt; twelve years after his death she 
married Mr. Jackson. Her works in¬ 
clude “ Bits of Travel,” “Bits of Talk,” 
“A Century of Dishonor,” “Verses by 
H. H.” and a number of volumes of tales 
for children. She died at her home in 
Colorado Springs, August 12, 1885. 

KEY, Francis Scott, was born in 
Frederick County, Maryland, in 1779. 
Afterward he lived in Washington, 
where he held the office of district attor¬ 
ney for the District of Columbia. In 
1814, during the bombardment of Fort 
McHenry, Mr. Key wrote the national 
song, “The Star Spangled Banner.” 
Several other poems were also written by 
him. He died in 1843. 

KINGSLEY, Rev. Charles, was born 
in Devonshire, England, June, 1819. 
He was educated at Cambridge, and after 
graduating at that institution, he devoted 
himself to theological works. But his 


name is best known in his efforts to im¬ 
prove the working classes by the forma¬ 
tion of co-operative associations. His 
works were numerous; among those best 
known are “Hypatia,” “Alton Locke,” 
“Westward Ho!” “Hereward” and “At 
Last.” He died January 23, 1875. 

LAMB, Charles, an English essayist 
and humorist, was born February 18, 
1775, in London, and educated at Christ’s 
Hospital. In 1792 he entered the East 
India Company, in London, as clerk, and 
remained drudging at the desk the 
greater part of his life. Lamb was a 
school-fellow and devoted friend of Col¬ 
eridge, and much loved for his amiable 
disposition by all of his contemporaries. 
He remained unmarried and lived with 
his sister till his death. He began his 
literary career by the publication of a 
small volume of poems in 1798. Lamb 
was better known as a prose writer than 
a poet, though his verse productions for 
children were quite abundant. The task 
of versifying the old fairy tale of “Beauty 
and the Beast” was undertaken by Lamb, 
after having been declined by Words¬ 
worth. The little poem has of late been 
brought to light after having lain over 
fifty years among the lost. Lamb died 
February 27, 1834. 

LANDON, Letitia Elizabeth, was 
born in a suburb of London in 1802. She 
is best known by her initials, L. E. L., 
under which her poems appear in various 
periodicals. Her writings are mostly of 
a romantic character. She married, in 





290 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


1838, Mr. Maclean, Governor of Gold 
Coast Colony, West Africa, where she 
died, October 15,1839. 

LARCOM, Lucv, an American poet, 
born in 1826. A part of her life was 
spent in the Lowell mills, but afterward 
she was a school teacher iri Massachu¬ 
setts and Illinois. “Wild Rover of Cape 
Ann” is her best original work, but she 
has a number of compilations in both 
prose and verse, and has been for many 
years a contributor to periodical litera¬ 
ture. 

LONGFELLOW, Henry Wads¬ 
worth, America’s most popular poet 5 
was born a^ Portland, February 27,1807. 
He graduated at Bowdoin College in 
1825, aud began the practice of law in 
his father’s office. Having received the 
tempting offer of professorship of modern 
languages in Bowdoin, he abandoned 
law for a literary life. In 1826 he went 
abroad, studying in France, Spain, Italy 
and Germany for the purpose of qualify¬ 
ing himself more fully for his new posi¬ 
tion. Again in 1835 he visited Europe, 
this time making a tour of Denmark, 
Sweden, Germany and Switzerland. Up¬ 
on his return he occupied the chair of 
modern languages and literature at Har¬ 
vard, a seat which he held nineteen 
years, and resigned in 1854 to Lowell, 
thus having been a college professor for 
twenty-five years, in addition to his cease¬ 
less literary work. Longfellow gave 
proofs of poetic genius at a very youth¬ 
ful age, and the same tenderness and 


graceful simplicity which marked his 
earliest writings were still characteristic 
of the last, till, reviewing his long list of 
works, it is difficult to say which song is 
sweetest. It has been strikingly said of 
him, that, “Like a golden-banded bee, 
humming as it sails, the poet has drained 
all the flowers of literature of their nec¬ 
tar, and has built for himself a hive of 
sweetness.” He died at Cambridge, Mass., 
March 24, 1882. Among his numerous 
works- are “Evangeline” (1847), “The 
Song of Hiawatha” (1855), “The Court¬ 
ship of Miles Standish” (1858), “The 
Tales of a Wayside Inn” (1863), “The 
Mask of Pandora” and “The Hanging of 
the Crane” (1875). 

LOYER, Samuel, an Irish poet, novel¬ 
ist and painter, was born in Dublin, 
1797. In his younger days he acquired 
a reputation as a painter, but later in 
life he turned his attention to literature. 
Lover is best known as the author of the 
novel “Handy Andy” (1842), “Rory 
O’Moore,” a song, and the beautiful 
poem “The Angel’s Whisper.” Other 
productions of less notoriety are “Le¬ 
gends and Stories of Ireland,” and “Met¬ 
rical Tales and Other Poems” (1859). 
He died in July, 1868. 

LOWELL, James Russell, an Ameri¬ 
can critic, poet and prose writer of celeb¬ 
rity, was born February 22,. 1819, at 
Cambridge, Mass. Like many other 
poets, after leaving college he studied 
law, only to abandon the profession that 
he might devote his time wholly to liter- 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 


291 


ature. His first volume of poems appeared 
before his 22nd birthday, in 1841; another 
volume in 1844, and in 1848 another, 
containing “The Vision of Sir Launfal.” 
In the same year he published “Fables 
for Critics,” and also the “Biglow Pa¬ 
pers,” a humorous satire on the Mexican 
war. In 1855 he succeeded Mr. Long¬ 
fellow as professor of modern languages 
and literature, at Harvard. Mr. Lowell 
became the editor of the Atlantic Month¬ 
ly on its establishment in 1857, and after¬ 
wards of the North Amerioan Review, 
from 1863-72. His prose works are, 
“Among My Books” (1870), “My Study 
Window” (1871) and “Fireside Travels” 
(1876). Lowell’s poems are the chief 
source of his fame. The exquisite gem, 
“The First Snowfall” will be found in 
this collection. In 1877 he was appointed 
minister to Spain, in 1879 minister to 
England, and was chosen Lord Rector of 
St. Andrew’s University, Scotland, in 
1879. 

LYTTON, Edward Robert Bclwer- 
(Owen Meredith), an English poet, was 
born November 8,1831. He was the only 
son of Edward Bulwer, Baron Lvtton, 
the celebrated novelist. In 1849 he en¬ 
tered the diplomatic service, and for a 
number of years was employed in various 
British embassies. On January 1, 1871, 
he presided over the gorgeous ceremonial 
on the plains of Delphi, of proclaiming 
Queen Victoria of England as Empress 
of India. While secretary of embassy at 
Paris in 1873, he succeeded to the titles 
of his father, and soon after was made 


minister at Paris. A year later was 
made minister at Lisbon, and in 1876 at 
Calcutta. Baron Lytton was sworn in 
as viceroy and governor-general of India, 
which office he held till 1880. Among 
his writings are several volumes of poems, 
the mo st, noted of which are “The Wan¬ 
derer” (1859), and “Lueile” (I860). An 
extract from the former will be found in 
this collection. 

MACDONALD, George, a famous 
Scotch writer, was born at Huntly, Scot¬ 
land, December 10, 1824. He was edu¬ 
cated at the University of Aberdeen, 

| studied theology in Owen’s College, 
Manchester, and was for several years a 
preacher in the Congregational Church 
in England. With a view of devoting 
himself wholly to literature, he left the 
pulpit and since has published a number 
of religious novels, through which his 
fame has been gained. His volumes of 
verse are also numerous, comprising some 
works for children, and all are written 
with some moral purpose. Prominent 
among those written for childhood is 
“Baby.” 

MASSEY, Gerald, was an English 
poet, and born in Hertfordshire, 1828. 
His parents being poor he was obliged 
to work in a factory during his boyhood, 
and received little instruction except 
that obtained from a penny school. 
When about thirty years of age he pub¬ 
lished a volume of poems, and in 1853 a 
volume of ballads and lyrical poems; 
another volume in 1870, entitled “A 
Tale of Eternity, and other Poems.” 





292 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


MEREDITH, Owen. (See Lytton.) 

MILLER, Cincinnatus Heine (Joa¬ 
quin), was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, 
November 10, 1842. He removed with 
his parents to the Pacific Coast when ten 
years of age, and spent some time on a 
farm. In 1850 lie began a roving life 
and passed a number of adventurous 
years among miners and Indians. In 
1860 he began the practice of law in 
Oregon, and in 1870 went to London. 
He became famous by the publication of 
his “Songs of the Sierras.” This was 
followed by “Songs of the Sunlands,” 
“The Ship in the Desert,” and a num¬ 
ber of other works. His present place 
of residence is in the suburbs of the city 
of Oakland, California. 

MOORE, Clement C., was born in 
New York in 1779. In 1821 he received 
an appointment in the Protestant Episco¬ 
pal Seminary of New York as professor 
of Hebrew and Greek literature. He 
published a Hebrew-and-English lexicon, 
besides some other works. His death 
occurred July 10, 1863. 

MOORE, Thomas, a renowned Irish 
poet, was born in Dublin, May 28, 1779, 
of humble parentage. He entered 
Trinity College at an early age, receiv¬ 
ing a good education, and afterward 
studied law. His first publication was a 
translation of the “Odes of Anacreon” 
in 1801; this was followed in 1802 by 
“The Poetical Works of the late Thomas 
Little.” In 1804 he visited the United 
States, and in 1806 published “Odes and 


Epistles.” Other works were numerous, 
consisting chiefly of lyrics, the most cele¬ 
brated collection being his “Irish Mel¬ 
odies.” One of his longer and more 
ambitious poems is entitled “ Lalla 
Rookh,” an Oriental poem; both this 
and the “Melodies” enjoy the highest 
reputation. His chief prose works are 
biographies of Sheridan, Byron and Lord 
Fitzgerald. The long and brilliant career 
of Ireland’s favorite poet drew to a close 
on February 25, 1825. 

MULOCH, Dinah Maria, an excel¬ 
lent English authoress, was born in 
Staffordshire in 1826. She published 
“The Ogilvies” (1849); “Olive,” “The 
Head of the Family,” “Agatha’s Hus¬ 
band” (1852); “John Halifax, Gentle¬ 
man” (1857); “A Life for a Life,” “A 
Woman’s Thoughts about Women,” “A 
Noble Life” (1866); “A Brave Lady” 
(1870); “Hannah” (1871); “Adventures 
of a Brownie” (1872); “My Mother and 
I” (1874); “Sermons out of Church” 
(1875) and “A Legacy, being the Life 
and Remains of John Martin, School¬ 
master and Poet” (1878). She also has 
a number of juvenile poems. In 1865 
she married Mr. George Lillie Craik. 

NORTON, Caroline Elizabeth 
Sarah, an English authoress, and daughter 
of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, was born 
in 1808. She married the Hon. George 
Chappie Norton in 1827, and separated 
from him in 1836. Afterwards she 
married Sir Stirling Maxwell. Her in¬ 
tellectual talents, together with a superior 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 


293 


education, made her a very pleasing 
writer. A volume of poems published 
in 1829 was her first work. Other works 
followed in 1830,1836,1840, 1845,1847, 
1850. Among her last publications are 
“A Letter to the Queen om Lord Cran- 
worth’s Marriage and Divorce Bill” 
(1855), “Lives of the Sheridans,” “Lady 
of La Garage” (1861), and “Lost and 
Saved” (1863). She died June 15,1877. 
The selection from her pen in this vol¬ 
ume is the well known “Arab’s Farewell 
to his Steed.” 

OSGOOD, Kate Putnam, is a native 
of Fryeburg, Maine, and was born in 
1841. She is a pleasing contributor of 
poetry to the periodicals of this country, 
one of her most popular pieces being 
“Driving Home the Cows.” Several fine 
pastoral poems have also com i from her 
pen. 

PALMER, Wm. Pitt, was born at 
Stockbridge, Mass., in 1805. He has 
pursued the following callings succes¬ 
sively : medical student, teacher and 
journalist. He is the author of the hymn 
entitled “Light,” and of the poem “The 
Smack in School.” 

PAYNE, John Howard, an American 
actor and dramatic poet, was born in 
Hew York, June 9, 1792. With an 
early matured mind Payne began literary 
work at the age of thirteen as editor ot 
a journal. At sixteen years of age he 
appeared on the stage as actor, and for a 
score of years he pursued with varied 
success the career of actor, manager and 


playwright. He was the author of several 
dramas, but he is most widely known by 
his celebrated song, “ Home, Sweet 
Home,” which alone preserves his name 
from oblivion. He visited Europe in 
1831. Upon his return home in 1832, 
he was appointed American consul at 
Tunis, where he died April 10, 1852. 
His body rests in Oak Hill Cemetery, 
in Washington, having been brought 
from Tunis. 

PHELPS, Elizabeth Stuart, a native 
of Andover, Mass , was born August 31, 
1844. She is a writer of both prose and 
verse. Of the former many are stories, 
and most of them are pleasing to young 
people. Among the number of her 
works most popularly known are “Gates 
Ajar,” “ Beyond the Gates,” “ The 
Gates Between,” “Men, Women and 
Ghosts.” 

POE, Edgar Allen, was born in Bos¬ 
ton, January 19, 1809. His parents 
dying during his boyhood, he was adopted 
by John Allen, of Richmond, who lavish¬ 
ly spent his wealth in educating the 
future poet. He entered in 1826 the 
University of Virginia, but remained 
less than a year. Afterwards a cadetship 
was obtained for him at West Point, but 
he was court-martialed and expelled. 
His adopted father dying, he was wholly 
thrown upon his own resources, and 
took up literature as a profession. In 
1829 he published a small volume of 
poems, and later on became successively 
editor of different magazines, but all 




294 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


proved unsuccessful. Among his princi¬ 
pal prose works are “The Fall of the 
House of Usher,” “Tales of the Gro¬ 
tesque and Arabesque” and “The Golden 
Bug.” His name will be longest re¬ 
membered as the author of two poems, 
one containing the sad strains of the 
“Raven,” and the other the harmonious 
tones of “The Bells.” Poe died at 
Baltimore in 1849 of delirium tremens, 
aged thirty-eight. 

PRESTON, Margaret Junkin, was 
born at Lexington,' Yirginia, in 1838. 
She is a contributor to magazine litera¬ 
ture, and has published several books, 
the first bearing the title of “Silverwood” 
(1856). In 1868 “Beechenbrook” was 
issued; “Old Song and New” in 1ST0, 
and in 1876 “The Cartoons.” 

SAXE, John Godfrey, was born in 
Highgate, Vermont, in 1816. He com¬ 
pleted a course of study at Middleburg 
College in 1839. From that time until 
1850 he studied and practiced law, and 
subsequently became editor of the Bur¬ 
lington Sentinel. In 1856 he was elected 
States Attorney, and three years later was 
the candidate of his party for Governor 
of Vermont. During these years Saxe 
was actively engaged in literary work. He 
is regarded as one of our best humorous 
poets, and published a collection of poems 
entitled “The Times” in 1847 that has 
obtained extensive popularity. The fol¬ 
lowing works are also from his pen: 
“Progress, a Satire” (1846), “New Rape 
of the Lock” (1847), “The Proud Miss 


McBride” (1848), “The Money King, 
and other Poems” (1859), “Clever Stories 
of Many Nations” (1864), “The Mas¬ 
querade, and other Poems” (1866), 
“Fables and Legends in Rhyme” (1872), 
“Leisure Day Rhymes” (1875). He 
died in 1886. 

SCHILLER, von, Johann Christoph 
Frederick, Germany’s great national 
poet, was born at Marbach, Germany, 
November 10, 1759. Owing to the 
movements of his parents, young Schiller 
was educated at different schools, finish¬ 
ing his course of study with a touch of 
theology, law and medicine, successively. 
But subsequently following the direction 
of his own inclinations, he turned his 
attention to the drama and general 
literature. His first effort was an epic 
poem entitled “Moses,” and written at 
the age of thirteen. This was followed 
by the tragedy of “The Robbers” at 
eighteen years of age, and after its 
representation he fled to Mannheim. In 
1789 he was ushered in as professor of 
history at Jena University, and two 
years later produced his “History of the 
Thirty Years’ War.” He next brought 
out the tragedy of “Wallenstein.” In 
1799 Schiller removed to Weimar. Fiona 
1799 to 1801 he produced “Mary Stuart,” 
“The Maid of Orleans,” “The Bride of 
Messina,” and in 1804 “William Tell,” 
the most popular of his dramas. Among 
his shorter productions is the pathetic 
and beautiful poem, “The Song of the 
Bell.” He died May 9, 1805. 






BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 


295 


SCOTT, Sib Walter, the celebrated 
Scottish novelist and poet, was born in 
Edinburg, August 15, 1771. As a child 
he was both sickly and deformed, having 
had a fever at eighteen months of age, 
which left him incurably lame. He was 
instructed first at the high school, and 
afterward at the University of Edinburg. 
Later he studied and practiced law for a 
short period, but the literary direction 
of his mind soon induced him to abandon I 
the profession for that of letters. His 
first publications were the transla¬ 
tions of “Lenore” and the “Wild Hunts¬ 
man” (1796). Several works followed, 
and then he produced the three great 
poems, “The Lay of the Last Minstrel” 
(1805), “Marmion” (1808) and the “Lady 
of the Lake” (1810). From 1814 to 1831 
was written that collection (amounting to 
upwards of thirty volumes) to which was 
given, from the title of the first, the 
name of the “Waverley Novels,” a series 
of works celebrating the history and ro¬ 
mance of his native country, of England 
and of the Continent. Literary history 
presents few examples of a career so 
splendid. Scott was raised to the dig¬ 
nity of a baronet by the king in 1820. 
In 1826 the publishing house in which 
he was a partner failed. With renewed 
zeal in his literary labors, he paid off the 
entire debt and saved Abbotsford to his 
heirs,' but it cost him his life. He died 
September 21, 1832. 

SHAKESPEARE, William, the 
English poet, and greatest dramatist of 
any age, was born April 23, 1564, at 


Stratford-upon-Avon, England. His 
father, J ohn Shakespeare, was a glover, 
and his mother, whose maiden name was 
Mary Arden, descended from an ancient 
and respected family, from which William 
claimed an honorable descent. But little 
is known accurately of his early life, and 
the facts in regard to his education are 
clouded in much mystery. It is sup¬ 
posed that he attended the “free gram¬ 
mar schools,” where his father, as aider- 
man, would have the right to send his 
son without expense. At the age of 
eighteen he married Anne Hathaway, a 
lady seven years and a half older than 
himself. When twenty-two years of age 
he went to London where he soon came 
into notice as a play-writer, furnishing 
thirty-seven dramas in twenty-three 
years. His sonnets, 164 in number, were 
not published till 1609. It is not known 
when he first began to write, or the exact 
order in which he composed his different 
works. About 1611, one year after the 
completion of his last play, he retired on 
an income of about $10,000 a year to his 
country estate at New Place, in Strat¬ 
ford, which he had purchased in 1597 
from his gains. Three children were 
born to him, but no lineal descendant 
remains. He died April 23, 1616. 

SIGOURNEY, Lydia Huntley, an 
American miscellaneous writer, was born 
at Norwich, Conn., September 1, 1791. 
An only child and reared with unusual 
tenderness, the future Mrs. Sigourney 
attained to womanhood. Five years of 
I her life were passed as teacher in a pri- 









296 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


vate school, and during this period she 
began her public literary life, issuing her 
first volume, entitled “Pieces in Prose 
and Verse,” in 1815. In 1819 she was 
married to Charles Sigourney, and re¬ 
moved to Hartford where she still lived 
at the time of her death. During her ac¬ 
tive life she published a large number of 
works. Among her poems are the “Ab¬ 
origines of America” (1822) and “Poca¬ 
hontas” (1841). She died June 10, 1866. 

STEDMAN, Clarence Edmund, an 
American poet, critic and journalist, was 
born at Hartford, Conn., October 8,1833. 
He studied at Yale College, and later 
was connected with newspapers in Nor¬ 
wich and Winsted, after which period his 
time was devoted almost wholly to au¬ 
thorship. Few of the younger poets of 
America have gained the favor awarded 
to his scholarly and cultured writings. 
Stedman has published the following list 
of books: “Poems, Lyrics and Idylls” 
(1860), “The Prince’s Ball” (1860), “The 
Battle of Bull Run” (1861), “Alice ot 
Monmouth” (1864), “The Blameless 
Prince” (1869), “Rip Van Winkle and 
his Wonderful Nap” (1870), “The Vic¬ 
torian Poets” (1875), “Lyricsand Idylls” 
(1879), “Rise of Poetry in America.” 

TAYLOR, Bayard, a distinguished 
American writer, was born in Chester 
county, Penn., in 1825. He began life 
as a printer, then appeared as a poet, and 
soon became well known as a writer and 
traveler. Having made a pedestrian tour 
of Europe, after his return he published 


in 1846 “Views Afoot.” In 1849 he 
became one of the editors of the New 
York Tribune. Subsequently he pub. 
lished a series of books descriptive of his 
travels in Europe, Africa, Syria, China 
and Japan. Among his other works are 
“Hannah Thurston” (1863), “John God¬ 
frey’s Fortunes” (1864), “The Story of 
Kennet” (1866), “Book of Romances, 
Lyrics and Songs” (1851), “Poems of 
the Orient” (1854), “Poems of Home 
and Travel” (1855), “The Poet’s Jour¬ 
nal” (1862), “The Marque of the Gods” 
(1872), “The Prophet” (1874), “Home 
Pastorals” (1875) and a “Translation of 
Goethe’s Faust” (1870-71). At the 
time of his death, December 19, 1878, 
he was United States minister to Ger¬ 
many. 

TAYLOR, Jane, an English writer 
of merit, was born in London, 1783. She 
was a contributor to magazine and juven¬ 
ile literature, many of her writings being 
adapted to childhood. The well known 
“Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” is from 
her pen. Other of her works which were 
popular are “Original Poems,” “Hymns 
for Infant Minds,” “Display,” a tale, and 
“Essays in Rhyme.” She died at Ongor 
in 1824, as much beloved for her moral 
worth, as admired for her intellectual 
endowments. 

TAYLOR, Jeffreys, an English 
writer, was born 1792 and died 1853. 
The humorous poem, “The Milk Maid,” 
is from his collection. His writings were 
entertaining to the young. 





BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 


297 


TENNYSON, Alfred, England’s 
most renowned modern poet, was born 
at Somersby, Lincolnshire, England, 1809 
(or 1810). He was educated at Trinity 
College, Cambridge, where, in 1829, he 
obtained the chancellor’s medal for an 
English prize poem, his subject being 
“Timbuctoo.” Before he was nineteen 
years of age, he published, in connection 
with his brother Charles, a small volume 
of poetry, and another one entirely his 
own before leaving: college in 1830. In 
1833 he issued another volume. The 
two volumes brought out in 1842 con¬ 
taining several of his masterpieces, placed 
him at the head of all living English poets. 
In 1851 he succeeded Wordsworth as poet- 
laureate of England. He was raised to 
the peerage in 1883 as Baron Tennyson 
d’Encourt of Aldworth. Among his 
most popular works are “Loeksley Hall, ,, 
“The Talking Oak,” “The Princess” 
(1847), “In Memoriam” (1850), “Idylls 
of the King” (1858), “Enoch Arden” 
(1864), “The Holy Grail” (1870). 

TILTON, Theodore, an American 
journalist, poet and writer of fiction, was 
born in Hew York City, October 2,1835. 
He was editor of the Independent 
from 1863-71, and of the Golden Age 
from 1871-74. “The Sexton’s Tale” was 
published in 1867, “Sanctum Sanctorum” 
(1869), “Tempest Tossed” (1874), “Thou 
and 1” (1880), “Swabian Stories” (1882). 
He is also noted as a public lecturer. 

TUPPER, Martin Farquhar, an 
English scientist and poet, was born in 


London on the 17th of July, 1810. 
Young Tupper was placed in the Charter- 
house school of London, and had for a con¬ 
temporary school-fellow the famous novel¬ 
ist, Thackeray. From there Martin went 
to Christ Church College, Oxford, where 
he took his degree of A. B. in 1832, and 
M. A. in 1835. Later he studied law, 
but never practiced. His literary work 
commenced with contributions furnished 
to the periodicals of the day. In 1837 
he published the first series of “Pro¬ 
verbial Philosophy.” Numerous works 
followed, among which are “Ballads, 
Sonnets and Lyrics.” He died in Lon¬ 
don, November 29, 1889. 

WATTS, Isaac, an English writer and 
poet of sacred song, was born at South¬ 
ampton, July 17, 1674, and educated 
among the Dissenters by Rev. Thomas 
Rowe. In 1702 he became pastor of the 
Independent Church in Mark Lane, Lon¬ 
don, but retired from service in 1712 on 
account of ill health, accepting a home 
offered him by the benevolent Sir Thos. 
Abney, and devoting his time hence¬ 
forward to study and literature. In 1728 
he received an unsolicited diploma from 
E< inburg and Aberdeen, by which he 
became a Doctor of Divinity. He died 
in 1748. His chief works were “Divine 
Songs for the Use of Children” (1720,) 
“Logic” (1725), once used as a text book 
at Oxford; “Astronomy and Geography” 
(1726). Besides his devotional hymns 
and songs which give him first rank 
among hymn writers, he also published a 


i 





298 


ROYAL ECHOES. 


number of essays and theological treat¬ 
ises. He died November 25, 1748. 

WILLIS, Nathaniel Parker, an 
American poet and miscellaneous writer, 
was born at Portland, Maine, January 
20, 1807. He graduated from Yale Col¬ 
lege in 1827, and soon after edited the 
Legendary and The Token , and subse¬ 
quently the New York Mirror. In 
1831 he visited Europe in company with 
the American minister at Paris He 
published in England “Pencillings by the 
Way” (1835), and “Inklings of Adven¬ 
ture” (1836). Returning home, those 
works were followed by “Loiterings of 
Travel” (1839), “Letters From Under a 
Rridge” (1840), “Dashes at Life with a 
Free Pencil” (1845), “People I Have 
Met” (1850), “A Health Trip to the 
Tropics” (1853), “Famous Persons and 
Places” (1854) and “Out-Door at Idle- 
wild” (1854). In 1846 Mr. Willis be¬ 
came associate editor of the Home Jour¬ 
nal. He died January 20, 1867. 

WHITTIER, John Greenleaf, a no¬ 
ted American author and poet, was born 
at Haverhill, Mass., December 17, 1807. 
His parents being Quakers he was reared 
in those principles, and has continued a 
representative of that denomination 
throughout his life. Young Whittier’s 
advantages for an education were limited 
at first, but after eighteen years of age 
he attended school for two years at 
Haverhill Academy, and since that time 
has been extensively connected with va¬ 
rious kinds of literary work. His liter¬ 


ary life, proper, began with contributions 
to the Haverhill Gazette . In 1829 he 
became editor of the American Manu¬ 
facturer', of the New England Review , 
1830; of the Pennsylvania Freeman , 
1838; and corresponding editor of the 
Natio?ial Era , 1847. His first publica¬ 
tion was a collection of Indian traditions, 
entitled “Legends of New England,” in 
1831. In addition to his editorial duties, 
he has published many other works; 
prominent among them are “Voices of 
Freedom” (1836), “Songs of Labor” 
(1851), “The Chapel of the Hermit” 
(1853), “Home Ballads” (1859), “In 
War-Time” (1863), “Snow-Bound” 
(1866),- “Among the Hills” (1868), Bal¬ 
lads of New England” (1869). Among 
his numerous prose works may be men¬ 
tioned “The Strauger in Europe” (1845), 
‘‘Supernaturalism in New England” 
(1847), “Old Portraits and Modern 
Sketches” (1850), “Literary Recreations” 
(1854.) Many editions of his poems 
have been published, one of the best be¬ 
ing the Centennial Edition, printed in 
1876. Whittier has lived for many years 
in literary retirement. Next to Long¬ 
fellow he is the most popular American 
poet, and one of which she will ever be 
proud. 

WOODWORTH, Samuel, an Ameri¬ 
can journalist and poet, was born at Scit- 
uate, Mass., in 1785. Among his lyrics 
is the popular poem, “The Old Oaken 
Bucket.” He died in 1842. 

WORDSWORTH, Willixm, an emi- 





BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 


299 


nent English poet and founder of the so- 
called Lake School of Poetry, was born 
at Cockermouth, Cumberland, England, 
April 7, 1770. His education was com¬ 
menced at the school of Hawkshead, 
Lancashire, and finished at Cambridge, 
where he spent most of his time in the 
study of English poets and reading 
classic authors. He opened his literary 
career by the publication of two poems, 
“The Evening Walk” and “Descriptive 
Sketches” (1793). His next attempt 
was “Salisbury Plain” (1796); this was 
followed by “Lyrical Ballads” (1798). 
The subsequent works of the poet were 
numerous. His love for the beautiful in 
nature early developed into poetry, 
though his honors fiid not come until 
after middle age. In 184*2 he brought 


; forth a complete collection of poems, 
which firmly established his fame, and in 
1843 he succeeded Southey as Poet-Lau- 
; reate of England. He died April 23, 

| 1850. 

YONGE, Charlotte Mart, a popular 
! English authoress, was born at Otter- 
: bourne, Hants, England, in 1823. Her 
j first production was published in 1844. 
Miss Yonge's works, mostly prose, extend 
to about thirty. She writes interestingly, 
and in her histories and biographies she 
adapts her style to suit youthful minds. 
Among her works are a series of “Young 
Folks’ Histories of Greece, Germany, 
France, Rome, England, etc.” Also 
“Kings of England” and “Landmarks of 
History.” 








INDEX of first lines 


PAGE 


A boy a pigeon once possessed. 200 

A commonplace life, we say, and we sigh.. 97 

A district school not far away. 138 

A foolish little maiden. 144 

A huntsman bearing his gun a-field. 52 

A little bee stood by the hive one morn.... 101 

A little downy chicken one day. 98 

A little Quaker maiden, with dimpled cheek 

and chin. 112 

All among the meadows. 35 

All around the Twickenham steeple. 89 

Alone in the dreary, pitiless street. 140 

A merchant, who by generous pains. 149 

A milkmaid who poised a full pail on her 

head. 161 

And now the bell, the bell. 162 

An elm tree and a pine tree. 263 

A nightingale made a mistake. 72 

As in her little mistress’ lap. 74 

Away, away in the Northland. 60 

A youngster at school, more sedate. 197 

Baby bye. 21 

Blessings on thee, little man. 169 

Bright be the skies that cover thee. 106 

“ Bring back my flowers, oh, brook!”. 158 

Build a little fence of trust. 15 S 

Buttercups and daisies. 62 

Come, come, mama, to the window. 30 

Come, Daisy, the clock’s striking eight. 54 

Come hither, my bov. and sit by my knee. .173 

Come to me, O, ye children!. 51 

Come to the schools that your friends are 

preparing. 174 

Dainty little maiden, whither would you 

wander?. 35 

Dandelion, dandelion. 164 

Dear little children where’er you be. 78 


PAGE 

Do you ask what the birds say?. 66 

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay. 54 

From gold to gray. 245 

Give me three grains of corn, mother. 183 

God’s plans, like lilies, pure and white. 113 

“ Good-morrow, my lord,” in the sky alone. 84 

Good people all, of every sort. 207 

Go set the table, Mary. 76 

Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick. 224 

Hard by a green meadow. 238 

Harmless, happy little treasure*. 40 

Have you not heard the poets tell. 146 

Have you seen my darling nestlings. 56 

Hearken, child, unto a story. 57 

Hear the sledges with the bells. 210 

He prayeth best who loveth best. 36 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my 

childhood. 266 

How did the Lord keep Easter?... .235 

How doth the little busy bee. 63 

Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber!. 38 

I come from haunts of coot and hern. 235 

If you’ve any task to do. 217 

If you your lips. 200 

I gave my little girl back to the daisies.... 88 

I like that old sweet legend. 102 

I love to hear thine earnest voice. 142 

I’m awfully sorry for poor Jack Roe. 202 

In the early autumn. 253 

I pace once more the pathways of my home 136 

I remember, I rememoer. 254 

I said it in the mountain path. 102 

Is it not sweet, beloved youth... 194 

Is it worth while. 260 

I think there are some maxims. 181 

I think when I read that sweet story. 43 

It is only in legend and fable. 97 


300 



































































INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 


301 


PAGE 

It was a hundred years ago. 193 

It was six men of Industan. 267 

I’ve a great deal to do, a great deal to do.. .215 

January brings the snow. 61 

King Bruce, of Scotland, flung himself 

down. 230 

Let dogs delight to bark and bite. 32 

Like some vision olden. 172 

Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep. 24 

Little by little, the time goes by. 263 

Little Gretchen, Little Gretchen. 118 

Little Miss Brier came out of the ground.. 94 

Little one come to my knee. 71 

Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes. 111 

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may 

roam. 182 

Minnie and Winnie. 25 

Morn has opened clear and bright. 176 

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standeth 

meekly by. 233 

My fairest child, I have no song. 162 

My old Welsh neighbor. 252 

Never utter a word of slang. 200 

Not long ago I wandered near. 73 

November’s hail-clouds drift away. 116 

Now I lay me—say it, darling. 33 

Now ponder well, you parents dear. 85 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray. 145 

Oh, boys and men of British mould. 83 

Oh, hush thee, my baby. 37 

Oh, Jack! are you up in the hay-loft?. 103 

Oh! mama what will grandpa do?. 90 

Oh! say can you see by the dawn’s early 

light-?. 2 61 

Oh, what’s the matter?. 208 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the 

West. 2 ^4 

Old Grimes is dead, that dear old man. 265 

Once on a time, ’twas long ago. 184 

Once upon a midnight dreary. 248 

One by one the sands are flowing. 258 

One day at a time, that’s all it can be. 251 

One of your old world stories. 126 

On the wide lawn the snow lay deep. 124 


O, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early 


O, then! I see Queen Mab hath been with 


PAGE 


Our Father in Heaven. 36 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass. 188 

Over the cradle the mother hung. 38 

O, w’here is my kitten, my little gray kitten? 34 

She was a little Irish maid. 160 

Sleep, baby sleep!. 44 

Small service is true service. 141 

So here hath been dawning. 192 

Somewhat back from the village street. 257 

So should w r e live that every hour. 135 

Speak gently, it is better far. 263 

Tell me little raindrops. 3 1 

The bells of the church are all ringing_ 105 

The boy stood on the burning deck. 196 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ..240 

The dew was falling fast. 122 

The fisher-boy gazed from the cottage door. 195 

The king’s three little daughters. 97 

The lady moon came down last night. 64 

The melancholy days are come. 259 

The mountain and the squirrel had a 

quarrel. 256 

The old chief, feeling now well nigh his 

end. 189 

The pig and the hen. 42 

The pines were dark on Ramoth Hill. 198 

The post-boy drove with fierce career. 115 

There are three lessons I would write. 164 

There’s a clever classic story. 225 

There’s no dew left on the daisies and 

clover. 44 

There was a noble ark. 75 

There was fear and desolation. 159 

There was one little Jack. 53 

The snow had begun in the gloaming. 180 

The summer and autumn had been so wet. .218 

The white turkey was dead. 93 

The woman was old, and ragged, and gray. 179 

They say that God lives very high. 90 

Three little boys talked together. 29 

Tired of play! tired of play!. 201 

To-whit, to-whit, to-whee!. 25 

Traveler, what lies over the hill. 252 

’Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours.. 267 

Twas the eve before Christmas. 66 

’Twas the night before Christmas. 81 

Twinkle, twinkle, little star!. 63 

















































































302 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 


« 


PAGE 

Two little kittens, one stormy night. 29 

Under the green trees. 216 

Up the dale and down the bourne. 215 

Up through wood paths with bird songs 

about her. 114 

What does little birdie say. 29 

What if the little Jewish lad. .. 100 

When Eve had led her lord away. 221 

When mother-earth bi-own-carpeted. 245 

Where did you come from baby dear?. 40 

Where did you come from little drops of 

rain?. 31 

Which is the wind that brings the cold?.... 97 


PAGE 

Whispering winds kiss the hills of Septem¬ 


ber. 94 

Who killed cock robin?. 22 

Who shall guess what I may be?. 142 

Who taught the little ant the way?. 213 

“Will you walk into my parlor?”. 58 

Work, work, my boy, be not afraid. 178 

You dear little birdie, who taught you to 

sing?. 104 

You’d scarce expect one of my age. 76 

You must wake and call me early. 135 

Young dandelion. 80 


You pay for th^ organ, pay for the flute... .231 




































x 



PAGE 


Frontispiece. 

For the Nursery. 20 

“I killed cock robin.”. 23 

Little Bo-Peep. 24 

Minnie and Winnie... 25 

“Who stole a nest away?”. 26 

“Let me fly, says little birdie.”. 28 

“They are thanking God for water.”. 30 

“Tell me little rain drops.”. 31 

“Let bears and lions.”. 32 

“Your little hands were never made.”. 32 

“ Mamma, God knows all the rest.”. 33 

“ At last I have found her.”. 34 

“ All among the meadows.”. 35 

“We hallow thy name.”. 36 

“ O hush thee, my baby.”. 37 

“Holy angels guard thy bed.”. 39 

“ What makes your cheek like—?”.41 

“ I’m the stronger, and mean to be boss —”. 42 

“I am seven times one to-day.”. 45 

Childhood. 50 

“ You are going to kill the thievish—”. 52 

“ O God, preserve my mother dear.”. 54 

“Come, daisy, the clock’s striking eight.”.. 55 

“I can tell you all about them.”.... 56 

The Children in the Moon. 57 

The Spider and the Fly. 59 

Buttercups and daisies. 62 

“ How I wonder -what you are.”. 63 

“They hurried Len and me to bed.”. 64 


PAGE 


“ That pretty moon up overhead.”. 65 

“And the very gifts prayed for.”. 67 

Beast and Man are Brother. 71 

“ She only sang to the skies.”. 72 

“ Now let the old cat die.”. 73 

The Kitten’s Joke. 74 

The Little Orator... 75 

“ Not one tall tree was seen ”. 76 

“Let the cloth be white—”. 77 

To the Children. * . 79 

Young Dandelion. 80 

“ A miniature sleigh—”. 81 

Sir Lark and His Wife. 84 

“ These pretty babes with hand in hand.”.. 86 

“ How can he read the papers there?”. 90 

“ They say that God lives very high.” .... 91 
“ Plaintively sighing the brown leaves—”.. 95 

The Chicken’s Mistake. 98 

“ In the long phlox tube.”.101 

“A little bee stood by the hive one morn.”.. 101 

In the Barn.103 

The Bird that Sings.104 

The Children’s Church.105 

“ In thy heart the dew of youth ”.no 

“ Oh, never a little Quakeress—”.112 

Apple Blossoms.114 

“ Relieve an orphan’s woe.”.117 

“ She shivers in the gloom.”.119 

Queen Mab, the Fairy.121 

The Pet Lamb.122 


303 































































304 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 


“ She floundered down the wintry lawn.”. . .125 

“ Listen to me, then.”.126 

“A mountain side, you said; the Alps per¬ 
haps.” .12S 

“ Where the great linden stood, set deep 

in snow.”.130 

“ The infant guide that used to roam with 

me.137 

“ Hither Will.”.139 

Nobody’s Child.140 I 

Sixteen. 142 

“ I think there is a knot of you.”.143 

“ For she thought the very song they sang.”. 144 

Lucy Gray.145 

“ Oh, Baby, dainty Baby Bell.”.147 

Beauty in the Enchanted Palace.151 

The Absence of Beauty Lamented.155 

The Enchantment Dissolved.156 

“ Bring back my flower*.”.158 

The Milk Maid.161 

Death of Little Nell.163 

Boyhood.168 

“ Blessings on thee, little man.”.170 

“ O lonely shepherd boy.”..172 

“ Come as you are.”.175 

The Boys’ Free Excursion.177 

Somebody’s Mother.179 

Old Maxims.181 

Home, Sweet Home.182 

“ Who sent her son to fetch some flour.” .. . 184 

“ Your table cloth is good for naught.”.1S5 

“’Tis little good for hungry folk—”.186 


PAGE 

“ Returning home he stopped at night.”.... 187 

A Chippewa Legend..189 

“Am I not fair? At least, the glassy 

brook—”.190 

The White Footed Deer.'.193 

“ The waves dashed high in their caps.” . . . 195 

Casabianca.196 

“ The blossoms drifted at our feet.”.199 

Tired of Play.201 

Miscellaneous. 206 

“ Hear the tolling of the bells.”.211 

“ By the grassy fringed river.”.214 

Jack-in-the-Pulpit.216 

The Stars and Flowers..222 

“ Great rats, small rats.”.228 

“ Out came the children running.”.228 

Robert Bruce and the Spider.230 

“ Who ever thinks of paying the birds.”.. .232 

“Fret not to roam the desert now ”.233 

“And here and there a lusty trout.”.236 

The Cow and the Ass.238 

“The curfew tolls the knell.”.242 

Indian Summer.246 

Squaw Winter.246 

The Raven.24.8 

I Remember, I Remember.254 

“You are doubtless very big.”.256 

The Old Clock on the Stairs.257 

Is it Worth While.260 

Destiny. 262 

The Old Oaken Bucket.266 

A Casket of Flowers.271 


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
John Greenleaf Whittier. 
James Russell Lowell. 
Ralph Waldo Emerson. 





































































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